It is too large.
You, as responsible head, know it is. But somehow, you know, the presence
here of you gentlemen has disarmed me. You don't need to be here; you all
have the facilities to get away. Here you are! I guess you can charge a
dollar and a quarter for gas if you want to." He looked from one to the
other, while he carefully wiped back the blood that was flowing from the
little wound in his forehead. "Eldridge acknowledges he has failed," he
repeated.
"I fail to see how you have improved upon that failure," snapped Eldridge,
stung.
"No?" queried Darrow. "I call Hallowell to witness that the game has been
fair. We had an even start; the data have been open to both." He raised
his voice a little. "Jack!" he called.
Immediately through the open door from the hall outside came Jack Warford,
leading by the arm a strange and nondescript figure. It was that of a
small, bent, old-looking man, dressed in a faded suit of brown. His hair
was thin, and long, and white; his face sharp and lean. His gaze was fixed
straight before him, so that every one in the room at the same instant
caught the glare of his eyes.
They were fixed, those eyes, like an owl's; or, better, a wildcat's, as
though they never winked. From the pupils, which were very small, the
little light-colored lines radiated across very large blue irises. There
was something baleful and compelling in their glare, so that even
Hallowell, cool customer as he was, forgot immediately all about the man's
littleness and shabbiness and bent figure, and was conscious only of the
cruel, clever, watchful, unrelenting, hostile spirit.
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