It was only
when, almost ignoring the rest of us, he took a step forward,
pointing a finger at one man--it was only when I turned about and saw
Foe's face--that the truth broke on me--and then, at first, as a wild
surmise, and no more. Even when I wheeled about again and stared at
the man, full belief came slowly: for this Farrell was thin, wiry,
gaunt; sun-tanned, with sunken eyes and a slight stoop; wearing the
clothes of a gentleman and, when at length he spoke, using the accent
of a gentleman. . . . But this came later.
For some seconds he said nothing: he stood and pointed. I glanced at
Constantia, preparing to spring between her and I knew not what.
Constantia, leaning forward a little in her chair, with lips slightly
parted, had, after the first glance, no eyes for the intruder, whom
(I feel sure) she had not yet recognised. Her eyes were fixed on
Jack, at whom the finger pointed: and her hand slid along the arm of
her chair and gripped it, helping her to rise and spring to his side.
Jimmy's face I did not see. He had come to a halt in the doorway.
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