Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/111

Rh his colorless face, with its close-clipped sideburns, was as devoid of expression as a mask. Having come to attention, and having fixed his eyes on the empty air somewhere about the center of the room, I realized that this walking crimson-rambler was about to break into human utterance. Before he had time for that, however, he was bunted bodily aside by a little old man in black, who hobbled petulantly on into the room and directed a shaking and accusatory finger at the little old man in black already there.

"Why in damnation, sir, should I be kept waiting like this?" demanded the newcomer in a thin squeak of a voice that reminded me of a wheel badly in need of oil. It was a thinner voice even than the other's, though those two strange figures had so much in common that I instantly took them to be brothers. The newcomer, however, had a touch of brown in his make-up. Instead of reminding me of a weasel, he reminded me more of a chipmunk, or a red squirrel. His lean old throat was more pendulous than his brother's, his hunched-up shoulders were narrower, and his hearing seemed bad, for from time to time, I noticed, he kept cupping his left hand behind his ear, as though straining to catch what was being said to him.