He was a small, squarely-built man, with
a sharp ruddy face like a frozen pippin, heavy grey eyebrows, and a
mouth like a trap when it was not pursed up for that everlasting
flute. As he sat there with his wig off, the crown of his bald head
was fringed with an obstinate-looking patch of hair, the colour of a
badger's. My amazement at finding him here at this hour, and alone,
was lost in my hatred of the man as I saw the depths of complacent
knowledge in his face. I felt that I must kill him sooner or later,
and the sooner the better.
Presently he laid down his flute again and spoke:--
"I scarcely expected you."
I grunted something in answer.
"But I might have known something was up, if I'd only paid attention
to my flute. It and I are not in harmony to-night. It doesn't like
the secrets I've been blowing into it; it has heard a lot of queer
things in its time, but it's an innocent-minded flute for all that,
and I'm afraid that what I've told it to-night is a point beyond what
it's prepared to go."
"I take it, it knows a damned deal too much," growled I.
He looked at me sharply for an instant, rose, whistled a bar or two
of "Like Hermit Poor," reached down a couple of clay pipes from the
shelf, filled one for himself, and gravely handed the other with the
tobacco to me.
"Beyond what it is prepared to go," he echoed quietly, sinking back
in his chair and puffing at the pipe.
Pages:
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39