Into the
old eyes had sprung a deadly terror, a look as though his immortal soul
might hang on what the young man was going to say next. To answer this
look, a blind impulse in Queed bade him strike out, to say or do
something; and his reason, which was always detached and impersonal,
was amazed to hear his voice saying:--
"It's all right, professor. Not a thing is going to happen."
The old man licked his lips. "You ... will stay on here?"
And Queed's voice answered: "As long as you want me."
Nicolovius, who had been born Surface, suffered a moment of collapse. He
fell back in his chair, and covered his face with his hands.
The dying efforts of the June sun still showed in the pretty
sitting-room, though the town clocks were striking seven. From without
floated in the voices of merry passers; eddies of the day's celebration
broke even into this quiet street. Queed sat down in a big-armed rocker,
and looked out the window into the pink west.
So, in a minute's time and by a wholly chance happening, the mystery was
out at last. Professor Nicolovius, the bland recluse of Mrs.
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