I never saw a less criminal type
of face."
They each in turn glanced at the subject of their discussion.
Oliver Hilditch's good-looks had been the subject of many press
comments during the last few days. They were certainly
undeniable. His face was a little lined but his hair was thick
and brown. His features were regular, his forehead high and
thoughtful, his mouth a trifle thin but straight and shapely.
Francis gazed at him like a man entranced. The hours seemed to
have slipped away. He was back in the tea-shop, listening to the
woman who spoke of terrible things. He felt again his shivering
abhorrence of her cold, clearly narrated story. Again he shrank
from the horrors from which with merciless fingers she had
stripped the coverings. He seemed to see once more the agony in
her white face, to hear the eternal pain aching and throbbing in
her monotonous tone. He rose suddenly to his feet.
"Andrew," he begged, "tell the fellow to bring the bill outside.
We'll have our coffee and liqueurs there."
Wilmore acquiesced willingly enough, but even as they turned
towards the door Francis realised what was in store for him.
Oliver Hilditch had risen to his feet. With a courteous little
gesture he intercepted the passer-by. Francis found himself
standing side by side with the man for whose life he had pleaded
that afternoon, within a few feet of the woman whose terrible
story seemed to have poisoned the very atmosphere he breathed,
to have shown him a new horror in life, to have temporarily,
at any rate, undermined every joy and ambition he possessed.
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