Then he met McDowell's eyes squarely. They were, as Conniston had
warned him, eyes that could see through boiler-plate. Of an indefinable
color and deep set behind shaggy, gray eyebrows, they pierced him
through at the first glance. Keith took in the carefully waxed gray
mustaches, the close-cropped gray hair, the rigidly set muscles of the
man's face, and saluted.
He felt creeping over him a slow chill. There was no greeting in that
iron-like countenance, for full a quarter-minute no sign of
recognition. And then, as the sun had played in the girl's hair, a new
emotion passed over McDowell's face, and Keith saw for the first time
the man whom Derwent Conniston had known as a friend as well as a
superior. He rose from his chair, and leaning over the table said in a
voice in which were mingled both amazement and pleasure:
"We were just talking about the devil--and here you are, sir!
Conniston, how are you?"
For a few moments Keith did not see. HE HAD WON! The blood pounded
through his heart so violently that it confused his vision and his
senses. He felt the grip of McDowell's hand; he heard his voice; a
vision swam before his eyes--and it was the vision of Derwent
Conniston's triumphant face.
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