The Inspector sat behind a table covered with maps and papers, and instantly Keith was conscious of the penetrating inquisition of his gaze.  He felt, for an instant, the disquieting tremor of the criminal.  Then he met McDowell’s eyes squarely.  They were, as Conniston had warned him, eyes that could see through boiler-plate.  Of an indefinable color and deep set behind shaggy, gray eyebrows, they pierced him through at the first glance.  Keith took in the carefully waxed gray mustaches, the close-cropped gray hair, the rigidly set muscles of the man’s face, and saluted.

He felt creeping over him a slow chill.  There was no greeting in that iron-like countenance, for full a quarter-minute no sign of recognition.  And then, as the sun had played in the girl’s hair, a new emotion passed over McDowell’s face, and Keith saw for the first time the man whom Derwent Conniston had known as a friend as well as a superior.  He rose from his chair, and leaning over the table said in a voice in which were mingled both amazement and pleasure: 

“We were just talking about the devil—­and here you are, sir!  Conniston, how are you?”

For a few moments Keith did not see.  He had won!  The blood pounded through his heart so violently that it confused his vision and his senses.  He felt the grip of McDowell’s hand; he heard his voice; a vision swam before his eyes—­and it was the vision of Derwent Conniston’s triumphant face.  He was standing erect, his head was up, he was meeting McDowell shoulder to shoulder, even smiling, but in that swift surge of exultation he did not know.  McDowell, still gripping his hand and with his other hand on his arm, was wheeling him about, and he found the girl on her feet, staring at him as if he had newly risen from the dead.

McDowell’s military voice was snapping vibrantly, “Conniston, meet Miss Miriam Kirkstone, daughter of Judge Kirkstone!”

He bowed and held for a moment in his own the hand of the girl whose father he had killed.  It was lifeless and cold.  Her lips moved, merely speaking his name.  His own were mute.  McDowell was saying something about the glory of the service and the sovereignty of the law.  And then, breaking in like the beat of a drum on the introduction, his voice demanded, “Conniston—­did you get your man?”

The question brought Keith to his senses.  He inclined his head slightly and said, “I beg to report that John Keith is dead, sir.”

He saw Miriam Kirkstone give a visible start, as if his words had carried a stab.  She was apparently making a strong effort to hide her agitation as she turned swiftly away from him, speaking to McDowell.

“You have been very kind, Inspector McDowell.  I hope very soon to have the pleasure of talking with Mr. Conniston—­about—­John Keith.”

She left them, nodding slightly to Keith.