“The rest of her life,” he echoed, in a hushed accent of dread.
While Enderby was getting his ticket, Io waited on the front platform. A small, wiry man came around the corner of the station, glanced at her, and withdrew. Io had an uneasy notion of having seen him before somewhere. But where, and when? Certainly the man was not a local habitant. Had his presence, then, any significance for her or hers? Enderby returned, and the two stood in the hard morning sunlight beneath the broad sign inscribed with the station’s name.
The stranger appeared from behind a freight-car on a siding, and hurried up to within a few yards of them. From beneath his coat he slipped a blackish oblong. It gave forth a click, and, after swift manipulation, a second click. Enderby started toward the snap-shotter who turned and ran.
“Do you know that man?” he asked, whirling upon Io.
A gray veil seemed to her drawn down over his features. Or was it a mist of dread upon Io’s own vision?
“I have seen him before,” she answered, groping.
“Who is he?”
Memory flashed one of its sudden and sure illuminations upon her: a Saturday night at The House With Three Eyes; this little man coming in with Tertius Marrineal; later, peering into the flowerful corner where she sat with Banneker.
“He has something to do with The Patriot,” she answered steadily.
“How could The Patriot know of my coming here?’