or attempts to hold, communication with the enemy, will be shot without court-martial.”
He turned his grim, inflexible face to the Countess and bowed, then he bowed to me, swung squarely on his heel, and walked to the door.
“Admit the French doctor,” he said to the soldier on guard, and marched out, his curved sabre banging behind his spurred heels.
“It must be Dr. Delmont!” I said, looking at the Countess as there came a low knock at the door.
“I am very thankful!” she said, her voice almost breaking. She rose unsteadily from her chair; somebody entered the room behind me and I turned, calling out, “Welcome, doctor!”
“Thank you,” replied the calm voice of John Buckhurst at my elbow.
The Countess shrank aside as Buckhurst coolly passed before her, turned his slim back to the embers of the fire, and fixed his eyes on me – those pale, slow eyes, passionless as death.
Here was a type of criminal I had never until recently known. Small of hand and foot – too small even for such a slender man – clean shaven, colorless in hair, skin, lips, he challenged instant attention by the very monotony of his bloodless symmetry. There was nothing of positive evil in his face, nothing of impulse, good or bad, nothing even superficially human. His spotless linen, his neat sack-coat and trousers of gray seemed part of him – like a loose outer skin. There was in his ensemble nothing to disturb the negative harmony, save perhaps an abnormal flatness of the instep and hands.
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