But the door opened again to admit the last of the guests. A
woman entered. Desmond was immediately struck by the contrast she
presented to the others, Mortimer with his goggle eyes and untidy
hair, Max, gross and bestial, Behrend, Oriental and shifty, and
the scarecrow figure of the tall man.
Despite her age, which must have been nearly sixty, she still
retained traces of beauty. Her features were very regular, and
she had a pair of piercing black eyes of undimmed brightness. Her
gray hair was tastefully arranged, and she wore a becoming black
velvet gown with a black lace scarf thrown across the shoulders.
A white silk rose was fastened to her bodice by a large black pin
with a glass head.
Directly she appeared, the tall man shouted to her in German.
"Sag' mal, Minna..." he began.
Mortimer turned on him savagely.
"Hold your tongue, No. 13," he cried, "are you mad? What the
devil do you mean by it? You know the rules!"
By way of reply, "No. 13" broke into a regular frenzy of coughing
which left him gasping for breath.
"Pardon! I haf' forgot!" he wheezed out between the spasms.
The woman went over to Mortimer and put out tier gloved hand.
"I am Mrs. Malplaquet," she said in a pleasant voice. "And you
are Mr. Mortimer, I think!"
Mortimer bowed low over her hand.
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