It was the dissipated ashen-white, almost leprous face of Pendleton.
With an incredible swiftness I felt my mental machinery working.
Something must be done. All hate of him and all fear of him vanished
from my mind before a faint lucid beam of a sort of indolent humor.
"That you, Jim?" I queried, peering more closely. "Hello, Jim!" I
greeted him in a jocund undertone, bringing my voice round, with a great
effort, to a pitch of naturalness.
"No, officer," I went on glibly. "Nothing wrong. This man was here on a
business matter. Left late. Running for a train, I suppose--weren't
you, Jim?"
"Yes," came hoarsely from Pendleton, and a quiver of triumph ran down my
spine.
"There'll be a train--let's see--" I fumbled. The policeman glanced
quizzically from one to the other of us, then shrewdly interposed:
"Train to N'York at three-seven. No use running," he grinned. My ear,
hypersensitive at that moment, seemed still to catch a note of doubt in
the zealous constable's voice. And when I longed to fling out, in the
words of the ballad--
He is either himsel' a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be,