What a face it was! White and flecked with
sweat-drops, marbled here and there with livid stains, the lips
quivering and working till they twisted themselves sometimes into a
ghastly mockery of a smile, the long teeth gleaming more wolfish than
ever. The iris of the prominent eyes had grown yellowish, and the whites
were bloodshot, so that the light seemed to flash from them _tawnily_.
Bruce had always been very much afraid of Livingstone. His terror had
gone on increasing during months of relentless pursuit; it had reached
its climax now. Guy stood at the foot of the bed, contemplating the
unhappy wretch with a cruel calmness that seemed to drive him wild. He
writhed and cowered under the fixed gaze, as if it gave him physical
pain.
"What are you here for?" he screamed out at last.
In strong contrast to the shrill, strained voice, the answer came slow
and stern. "To arrest Charles Forrester's murderer."
Then Bruce seemed to lose his head all at once, and began to rave. It is
impossible to transcribe the string of protestations, prayers for mercy,
and horrible blasphemies; but there was enough of self-betrayal to
complete the proof we wanted ten times told. The detective chuckled
more complacently than ever as he insinuated the handcuffs round
Macbane's wrists.
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