Lazarus STEPHEN MEGARA’S FACE WAS a study in boiling expression. The metamorphosis in this vital, self-possessed man was startling. The pressure of the unknown had finally torn the mask of will from his face. His eyes glittered with an icy unrest. He looked rapidly about the room—at the windows, as if he anticipated the phenomenon of a phantasmal Velja Krosac leaping at him; at the door, where the detective leaned indifferently. He took a squat automatic from his hip pocket and examined its mechanism with lightning fingers. Then he shook himself and strode to the door, closing it in the detective’s face. He went to the windows, and with hard eyes looked out. He stood there quietly for a moment, uttered a short laugh, and slipped the automatic into his coat pocket. Isham growled: “Mr. Megara.” The yachtsman turned swiftly, his face set. “Tom was a weakling,” he said curtly. “He won’t get me—that way.” “Where is Van? How is it he’s alive? What does this note mean?
