And, through the smoke, peering at him from the corners of
the room, he saw that all the Brothers about him had the faces he had
known and lived with long ago--Roest, Fluheim, Meinert, Rigel, Gysin.
He stared hard, suddenly grown more alert, and everywhere saw, or
fancied he saw, strange likenesses, ghostly resemblances,--more, the
identical faces of years ago. There was something queer about it all,
something not quite right, something that made him feel uneasy. He shook
himself, mentally and actually, blowing the smoke from before his eyes
with a long breath, and as he did so he noticed to his dismay that every
one was fixedly staring. They were watching him.
This brought him to his senses. As an Englishman, and a foreigner, he
did not wish to be rude, or to do anything to make himself foolishly
conspicuous and spoil the harmony of the evening. He was a guest, and a
privileged guest at that. Besides, the music had already begun. Bruder
Schliemann's long white fingers were caressing the keys to some purpose.
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