A sharp chill hung in the hallways; this
increased as they neared the executive's office. Outside the door sat the
doorkeeper in his armchair. Beside him was a dog, in the attitude of an
animal seated on its haunches, but lying on its side, one fore leg
sticking straight out. Darrow touched the man and stooped over to peer in
his face. The attitude was most lifelike; the color was good. A deadly
chill ran from Darrow's finger tips up his arm.
He pushed open the door cautiously and looked in.
"All right, Burns," said he. "The atmosphere has become gaseous again. We
can go in." With which strange remark he entered the room, followed
closely, but uncertainly by the officer.
The private office possessed the atmosphere of a cold-storage vault. Four
men occupied it. At the desk was seated the mayor, leaning forward in an
attitude of attention, his triple chin on one clenched fist, his heavy
face scowling in concentration. Opposite him lounged two men, one leaning
against the table, the other against the wall. One had his hand raised in
argument, and his mouth open. The other was watching, an expression of
alertness on his sharp countenance. At a typewriter lolled the clerk, his
hand fumbling among some papers.
The group was exceedingly lifelike, more so, Darrow thought, than any wax
figures the Eden Musee had ever placed for the mystification of its
country visitors. Indeed, the only indication that the men had not merely
suspended action on the entrance of the visitors was a fine white rime
frost that sparkled across the burly countenance of the mayor.
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