He reached for her chin and lifted it up. Perhaps he had heard of this Enschede. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all. Until at last I persuaded him to go to bed. She seemed tense when not playing, he noted, more so than she had during the first two pieces. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it.
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