"For he was alone, yet not alone: a hundred Farrells stood there.
No, a battalion, and all of them Farrells! And a battalion of
dogs!
"I stepped back from the ledge of the threshold. Above the
doorway an inscription in faded gilt letters shone out against
the moon--'VERSAILLES GALLERY OF MIRRORS. ADMISSION 3D.'
"Then I understood. This absurd and ghastly apartment was lined,
all around its walls, with mirrors, in panels separated only by
thin gilt edgings. Dust lay thick on the floor; cobwebs hung
from the ceiling in festoons; there was not a stick of furniture
in the place. But a battalion of Farrells stood in it, and
there entered to it, and stood, under the new electric fittings,
a battalion of Foes.
"Farrell's aspect was grave. His eyebrows went up at the choke
of half-insane laughter with which I greeted him. 'Foe, my
man,' said he, eyeing my khaki. 'So you have come to this, have
you?'
"He said it pompously, with a fine air of patronage, and I
stifled a second laugh, hugging it inside my ribs: for now I
felt that the time would not be long--that, at long last, he
would pass me over the cards.
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