cernedly, that was it—what did Willett know, what did any one know except Varge?—he was a fool to give way to—
The door behind the other grating opened and closed, and in front of him, close against the grating, there was a sudden blur—a blur that wavered in curiously alternating stripes of black and grey; and there was a white face above the blur staring at him, a face that held nothing of familiarity in it, just a face which because it was very pale made the eyes very luminous and that was why they seemed to bore through him. Once before he had seen a face—yes, that night, that cursed night—but this had nothing to do with that, nothing at all, nothing— He wrenched himself together—he was acting worse than a madman—what if Willett, the guard, should notice it! He glanced that way. Willett was still leaning unconcernedly against the corridor wall—he wasn't even looking into the room.
Merton's eyes fastened on the grating—there was no blur now—the splendid physique seemed to stand out intensified by the loose-fitting convict garb, the massive shoulders, the strong, white neck, the upright form—and the face; yes, it was Varge's face. The clustering brown hair was gone and the skin was of a curious pallor, but the eyes were undimmed, clear, deep and steady—yes; it was Varge's face, a face like a carven god's, of ivory, of wondrous strength and power, and there was no savagery, no passion, no anger in it, but there was—yes; there was pity. It was a cold pity, perhaps, contemptuous pity—but it was pity, Merton snatched at it ravenously. Pity—that was his cue.
Only an instant it had been since Varge had entered
