The two of them stood in front of a window through which lamp-light was streaming, across Gypo’s chest on to Mulholland’s face. Mulholland’s yellow face looked almost black in the lamp-light. It was furrowed vertically from the temples to the jaws, with deep black furrows. The mouth was large and open, fixed in a perpetual grin that had absolutely no merriment in it, that fixed grin of sardonic contempt that is nearly always seen on the faces of men who make a business of concealing their thoughts. The nose was long and narrow. The ears were large. The forehead was furrowed horizontally. The skin on the forehead was very white in contrast to the dark skin on the cheeks. The furrows on the forehead were very shallow and narrow, like thin lines drawn with a sharp pencil. In fact, the whole appearance of the face was that of an artificial face, such as that produced in the dressing-room of an actor by means of paints, etc. This suggestion was strengthened by the appearance of the hair that straggled in loose wisps from beneath the shovel-shaped peak of the grey tweed cap. The hair appeared to be a dirty brown wig, much the worse for wear. But neither the hair nor any portion of the face was artificial. Everything had come from the hand of Nature, which seemed, by some peculiar whimsey, to have cast this individual for the rôle of a conspirator. The face was the face of a clown to hide the conspirator’s eyes, except from a very close scrutiny. The eyes were the colour of sea water that is dirty with grey sand. These eyes are sometimes described as watery blue, but it is a totally wrong description. There was an indescribable coldness and depth in them which it is beyond the power of any colour to describe. They stared without a movement of the pupils or of the lashes at Gypo’s face, expressing no emotion whatever. They were not doors of the soul like ordinary eyes, but spy holes. They stared glassily like a cat’s eyes. This curious creature was dressed like a workman, in heavy hobnailed boots, brown corduroy trousers with strings tied around the legs below the knees, a black handkerchief tied in sailor fashion around his neck and an old grey tweed coat that almost reached half-way down his thighs. His hands were stuck deep down in the pockets of his coat. “Where’s yer hurry takin’ ye, Gypo?” he drawled in a low lazy voice, as if he were half-drunk or lying on his back in a sunny place on a hot summer’s day. “Who’s in a hurry?” growled Gypo. “How d’ye make out I’m in a hurry?” “Oh, nothin’ atall. Don’t get yer rag out, Gypo. Ye might talk to the people. We never see ye atall now since ye left the Organization. Are ye workin’?”