"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 015 - Green Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Again Laird relaxed. The porter tried to pull himself together, but just as he was on the point of regaining
his composure, he noticed the little red mark on Laird's forehead.

It seemed to strike terror to the Negro's soul, though he could not explain why. There was something
sinister about the bloodlike mark.

Laird laughed, half in relief at having gotten the letter off his hands, half in amusement at the porter's
obvious terror. Then he turned and walked unconcernedly back toward the rear of the train.

After the passenger had gone, the porter stood still a moment, trying to connect the red mark with
something else in his experience. Finally he shook his head, and walked to the letter rack in the rear of
the car.

Into the open rack he dropped the letter. There were already a half dozen envelopes there, ready to be
mailed at Truckee.

The porter disappeared into the linen closet. Immediately one of the dozing men leaped to his feet. He
sprang to the letter rack, threw a quick glance around the car, and withdrew the letter the porter had just
placed there. Then he hurried from the car.

THE train was slowing down still further as it reached the pass through the mountains. As the man who
had just stolen the letter hastened in the same direction Stephen Laird had taken, he noticed that there
was hardly any sideward motion at all.

The letter thief quickly reached the observation car. It was deserted. The man walked to the glass door
at the rear of the car, hesitated a few moments, and then stepped out onto the platform.

Although it was now past one o'clock, there was a man sitting in the darkness on the left side of the little
platform. He glanced up sharply as the thief appeared; but the newcomer paid no attention to him.
Instead, he dusted off the unoccupied chair, and sat down on the right side of the gallery.

After a few minutes of silence, the man on the left lighted a cigarette. The glare of the match in his cupped
hands revealed the sallow, nervous features of Stephen Laird. The crimson mark stood out over the
blinking, furtive eyes.

The match went out. Laird's head was facing forward, looking straight back along the dropping tracks
that stretched to the coast.

The train rattled as it bumped over a switch point and onto the double-tracked roadbed that indicated a
bypass. A signal post appeared.

It carried a single green light. Laird's eyes focused on that glare. His body shook with an irresistible
shudder. That single disk of brilliant green had awakened some horrible memory in his mind!

He mumbled: "Green! Green! Like those other lights - like those awful eyes!"

The words were not loud enough for the man who had stolen the speaker's letter to distinguish. His side
of the platform was wrapped in a blanket of clickings and grumblings as a long line of darkened sleepers
passed by, bound west.