A flash of malicious desire came into
his eyes as the vision shaped itself in his imagination, and he saw
himself, instead of the negro barber, holding the Gorgio chin and looking
down at the Gorgio throat with the razor, not lightly, but firmly grasped
in his right hand. How was it that more throats were not cut in that
way? How was it that while the scissors passed through the beard of a
man's face the points did not suddenly slip up and stab the light from
helpless eyes? How was it that men did not use their chances? He went
lightly down the street, absorbed in a vision which was not like the
reality; but it was evidence that his visit to Max Ingolby's house was
not the visit of a virtuoso alone, but of an evil spirit.
As the Romany disappeared, Max Ingolby had his hand on the old barber's
shoulder. "I want one of the wigs you made for that theatrical
performance of the Mounted Police, Berry," he said. "Never mind what
it's for. I want it at once--one with the long hair of a French-Canadian
coureur-de-bois. Have you got one?"
"Suh, I'll send it round-no, I'll bring it round as I come from dinner.
Want the clothes, too?"
"No.
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