Was he supposed to know him?
He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a
heavy puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush
moustache. He might have been a butcher to look at. In the top
edge of his coat lapel, he wore a small black pin with a glass
head.
"Well, Max," said Mortimer. "Have you brought them all?"
The man was mustering Desmond with a suspicious, unfriendly
stare.
"My friend, Bellward!" said Mortimer, clapping Desmond on the
shoulder. "You've heard of Bellward, Max!"
And to Desmond's surprise he made some passes in the air.
The man's mien underwent a curious change. He became cringing;
almost overawed.
"Reelly," he grunted, "reelly now! You don't siy! Glad to know
yer, mister, I'm shore!"
He spoke with a vile snuffing cockney accent, and thrust out his
hand to Desmond. Then he added to Mortimer:
"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.
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