As he sank to the level
of this opening the light of the street, no longer dimmed by the
dusty glass, fell full upon his face. The man seemed to be
beside himself with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars
and his features were working convulsively. He was an elderly
man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a
huge grizzled moustache. An opera-hat was pushed to the back of
his head, and an evening dress shirt-front gleamed out through
his open overcoat. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with
deep, savage lines. In his hand he carried what appeared to be
a stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it gave a
metallic clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a
bulky object, and he busied himself in some task which ended
with a loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into
its place. Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and
threw all his weight and strength upon some lever, with the
result that there came a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending
once more in a powerful click. He straightened himself then,
and I saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of gun, with
a curiously misshapen butt.
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