A face was the first thing Clifford caught sight of when he opened his eyes again.
Such a face! Huge, dull, heavy, with deep, sunken eyes, which shone out with a lurid light from under cavernous eyebrows.
They were fixed upon the boy with such a beast-like glare that Clifford, sick and shaken with his heavy fall, could only lie and gaze and vaguely wonder whether he was awake or dreaming.
Gradually as his senses came back he realized that he was lying on a grassy path, and the owner of the eyes, a tall, powerfully built man, was sitting on a moss-grown log leaning over him.
But who and what he was, and why he glared in this ghastly fashion, never attempting to offer help, Clifford could not imagine.
The fixed stare was slowly hypnotizing him. He made an attempt to roll out of reach of the horrible eyes.
Instantly a long arm shot out, and fell on his shoulder with a grip painful in its vise-like strength.
"You'll do," said the owner of the eyes in a queer, hoarse voice.
"Do what?" muttered the boy faintly.
"To kill," replied the man in the coolest tone imaginable.