But perhaps it was all for the best--yes, he would make it all
for the best! As he left the shop, however, and passed down the street
his mind remained in the barber-shop. He saw in imagination the masterful
Gorgio in the red-plush chair, and the negro barber bending over him,
with black fingers holding the Gorgio's chin, and an open razor in the
right hand lightly grasped. 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.
Pages:
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164