Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/113

Rh the massive lines of a well-fed pork-butcher. His face was blond and fat and his rather watery gray-blue eyes weren't the kind you'd want to trust in the dark. His forehead was wet with perspiration, and he was breathing hard, as though he had been running and had no love for the game. With a quick gesture of his huge arms he motioned away the crimson-rambler butler who had stalked into the room after him. Then, still staring at me, he hurriedly mopped his face with a large handkerchief.

"Well?" repeated the old weasel at my side, as the latest arrival stood there struggling to recover his breath.

"Yes—well?" echoed the old red squirrel at the other end of the room.

"Quick, both of you," said the doctor, making a motion for them to withdraw beyond the still open door.

"But what's happened, what's wrong?" demanded the brisker of the two old brothers. For I was sure by this time that they were brothers. The scrawnier one with the hunched-up shoulders, I noticed, had slipped over to the second door through which I had entered the room. I saw him lock that door and quietly pocket the key. And I remembered that it marked my only visible avenue of escape.