As he heard Mortimer speak Barbara's name, he had a sudden
premonition that his own unmasking was imminent, though he
understood as little of the purport of the other's remark as of
the pile of cigarettes lying on the carpet. As Mortimer turned to
look at him, Desmond nerved himself to meet the latter's gaze.
But Mortimer's face wore the look of a desperate man. There was
no recognition in his eyes.
Not so with Desmond. Perhaps the bitterness of his disappointment
had made Mortimer careless, perhaps the way in which he had
pronounced Barbara's name struck a familiar chord in Desmond's
memory. The unkempt hair brushed down across the forehead, the
thick glasses, the heavy moustache still formed together an
impenetrable mask which Desmond's eyes failed to pierce. But now
he recalled the voice. As Mortimer looked at him, the truth
dawned on Desmond and he knew that the man standing beside him
was Maurice Strangwise, his comrade-in-arms in France.
At that very moment a loud crash rang through the room, a cold
blast of damp air came rushing in and the lamp on the table
flared up wildly, flickered an instant and went out, leaving the
room in darkness save for the glow of the fire.
A deep voice cried:
"May I ask what you are all doing in my house?"
The secret door of the bookshelves had swung back and there,
framed in the gaping void, Desmond saw the dark figure of a man.
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