“There’s three on ’em. That’s the count, ain’t it? I lef’ the car outside on the drive!”
At this moment two more of the guests entered: One was a tall, emaciated looking man of about fifty who seemed to be in the last stages of consumption; the other a slightly built young fellow with a shock of black hair brushed back and an olive complexion. He wore pince-nez and looked like a Russian revolutionary. They, too, wore the badge of the brotherhood—the black pin in the coat lapel.
“Goot efening, Mr. Mortimer,” said the tall man in a guttural voice, “this is Behrend”—he indicated the young man by his side—“you haft not meet him no?”
Then, leaving Behrend to shake hands with Mortimer, he literally rushed at Desmond and shook him by the hand exactly as though he were working a pump handle.
“My tear Pellward,” he cried, “it is a hondred year since I haf see you, not? And how are the powers!”
He lowered his voice and gazed mysteriously at him.
Desmond, at a loss what to make of this extraordinary individual, answered at random:
“The powers? Still fighting, I believe!”
The tall man stared open-mouthed at him for a moment. Then, clapping his hands together, he burst into a high-pitched cackle of laughter.
“A joke,” he yelled, “a mos’ excellent joke! I must tell this to Minna. My vriend, I haf not mean the great Powers.”