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As he confronted the Italian it appeared as if the mask had fallen from Sairson's face. His dark, heavy features grew moist and flabby, and his forehead was studded with beads of perspiration. He had had several unpleasant shocks lately, but none was quite like this. Mascani closed the door and stood with his back to it, smiling gently. There was nothing sinister or threatening in his aspect, but Sairson was none the easier in his mind on that account.
"You are right, my friend," the Italian purred. "So you recognised me at a glance. Such a meeting would delight the heart of the dramatist.