Once more I took note of him.
I saw now that he was younger than I had imagined, and a trifle taller.
The ghastly pallor, which extended even to his lips, was unabated, but
his first paroxysm of fear seemed, at any rate, to have become lessened.
He looked now like a man at bay indeed, but prepared to fight for his
life. He had evidently been dressed for the evening, for his white tie
was still hanging about his neck. Coat and waistcoat he had left behind
in his flight, but his black trousers were well and fashionably cut, and
his socks were of silk, with small colored clocks. The fingers were white
and delicate, and his nails well cared for. There was one thing more, the
most noticeable of all perhaps. Although his face was the face of a young
man, his hair was as white as snow.
"Look here," I said to him, "can't you give me some explanation as to
what all this means? You haven't been getting yourself into trouble, have
you?"
"Trouble!" he repeated vaguely, with his eyes fixed upon the door.
"With the police!" I explained.
"No, these are not the police," he answered.
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