Page 141 - the-thirty-nine-steps

might have been walking in my sleep and killing people.’
It couldn’t be acting, it was too confoundedly genuine. My
heart went into my boots, and my first impulse was to apol-
ogize and clear out. But I told myself I must see it through,
even though I was to be the laughing-stock of Britain. The
light from the dinnertable candlesticks was not very good,
and to cover my confusion I got up, walked to the door and
switched on the electric light. The sudden glare made them
blink, and I stood scanning the three faces.
Well, I made nothing of it. One was old and bald, one was
stout, one was dark and thin. There was nothing in their ap-
pearance to prevent them being the three who had hunted
me in Scotland, but there was nothing to identify them. 1
simply can’t explain why I who, as a roadman, had looked
into two pairs of eyes, and as Ned Ainslie into another pair,
why I, who have a good memory and reasonable powers of
observation, could find no satisfaction. They seemed exactly
what they professed to be, and I could not have sworn to one
of them.
There in that pleasant dining-room, with etchings on
the walls, and a picture of an old lady in a bib above the
mantelpiece, I could see nothing to connect them with the
moorland desperadoes. There was a silver cigarette-box
beside me, and I saw that it had been won by Percival Ap-
pleton, Esq., of the St Bede’s Club, in a golf tournament. I
had to keep a firm hold of Peter Pienaar to prevent myself
bolting out of that house.
‘Well,’ said the old man politely, ‘are you reassured by
your scrutiny, Sir?’

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