It was Captain Francis Newcombe.
He stared into the glass, his fists knotted at his sides. It was as though the two faces flung a challenge one at the other, each mocking the other in a sort of hideous7 imitation of every muscular movement. They were distorted—the lips drawn8 back, displaying teeth as beasts might do; and in the shadows the eyes were lost, only the sockets9 showing like small, black, ugly, cavernous things.
The minutes passed—long minutes. A metamorphosis was taking place. The faces became more composed; they became debonair10, suave—and finally they smiled at one another as though a truce11 had been proclaimed.
Captain Francis Newcombe swung back to the chair, and flung himself down in it again. It was over for the moment. For the moment! Yes, that was it—for the moment! But it would come again. Last night in his bunk12 on the Talofa he had lain awake, and lived through hell. To-day, behind his mask of complaisance13, fear had gnawed14. Fear! And it had been his boast that fear and he were strangers.
His lips grew tight.
Well, his boast still held good! What man had ever stood before him, and taunted15 him with fear! This was fear in a different sense. It was a fear of the intangible, of what he could not reach, or see, of what he could not materialise into actual form. It was the fear of the unknown.
He was on his feet again.
"Damn you!" he snarled16. "Come out into the open and fight! You hell-hound, you spawn17 of the devil, come out, show your face—"
No! Quiet! That would not do! He was in control of himself again, wasn't he? It was a game of wits against wits, of cunning matched against cunning. But against whom—and what was the stake this unknown, who had come to plague and torment18 him, played for? Revenge? The law? A Nemesis19 rising up out of forgotten things?
His mind prodded20 and sifted21 and strove, and in its striving seemed to jar and jangle and crunch22 like the parts of some machinery23 in motion, which, out of gear, threatened at any moment to demolish24 itself.
If he went mad—like Mr. Marlin! Ha, ha!
"By God!" he muttered grimly. "This is bad—a bad bit of nerves. If it was the same blighter who fired at me on shipboard, and it must have been, why didn't he fire at me again last night when he had an even better chance, instead of yowling through the darkness?"
That was better! It was the one trump25 card in his hand; the card that, as he had watched the daylight creep in through the tiny portholes of the Talofa that morning, had determined26 him, not only to carry on, but to make it serve as a trap to put an end to this skulking27 familiar who had fastened itself upon his trail. That wasn't fear, was it?
Shadow Varne! Who was the fool who dared to challenge Shadow Varne!
He was smiling now—but his lips were thin and merciless.
It could no longer be held attributable to some crazed, irresponsible act, that shot on shipboard, which chance had elected should be fired through his stateroom window rather than through any other. Logic28 now denied that. The man who had fired that shot, and the man who had screamed out in taunting29 mockery at him last night, were one and the same. Well, who was it, then, who had been on the liner, and was now on Manwa Island?
There were only two. Runnells and Locke!
Had Runnells had time to change his shoes, or, granting the time, had cunning enough to have thought of doing so? No; the chances were a thousand to one against it. Locke, then? But Runnells had said that Locke hadn't left the Talofa. Were Runnells and Locke in cahoots together? They had been extremely friendly on the way down. But Locke—it was preposterous30! He knew who Locke was—a young American business man of good family. It was curious, though, that Polly should have made that remark to-day—about a trip like this on such short acquaintance. No; there was nothing in that. It had happened too naturally. Locke had a good many pairs of shoes. Like Runnells', none of them had been wet; but he was not sure he had found all of them in the darkness in the cabin with Locke—supposedly at least—asleep there on the opposite bunk. Locke could easily have hidden a tell-tale pair; and Locke was decidedly the kind of man who would have had the intelligence to do so.
But how could Locke know him as Shadow Varne?
Well, there was Runnells!
His jaws31 set with a snap. Was it Runnells? There was one way to find out—within the next ten minutes—with his hands at Runnells' throat! No; that would not do—not yet—save as a last resort. If it were not Runnells, then any act like that on his part would disclose his hand, arouse Runnells' suspicions that this trip to Manwa Island was perhaps, after all, not entirely32 a holiday jaunt33!
He began to pace up and down the room—but noiselessly, without sound. His subconscious34 mind imposed the necessity for silence.
His hands clenched until the nails bit into the palms. Who was it? What did it mean? What was at the bottom of it? There was no answer that solved the question even to the satisfaction of a tormented35 brain that would have grasped with eager relief at even a plausible36 conclusion. The law? If the law had proof that he was Shadow Varne, he would not be an instant at liberty—though he would never be taken alive again—not even under the helpless condition that had done him down in Paris for the first and only time, as that old busybody, Sir Harris Greaves, the fool who loved to play with lighted matches over a powder cask, had so unctuously37 set forth38. But perhaps the law did not have proof, had only suspicion—was only playing a game to trip him into disclosing his identity. Revenge? Then why not another shot last night, as on the liner; why—
The cycle! The infernal and accursed cycle again!
Well, whoever it was, they would play with Shadow Varne, would they? Fools! Did they think he was one, too—that he could not see the weak spot in their attack? Something was holding them back here on the island from a shot as on the liner; here, for some reason, an attempt to inspire fear was evidently being resorted to instead. Something kept them from coming out into the open; something necessitated39 this cat-and-mouse game. Something, if exposure were actually within their power, prevented them from exposing him.
That was it! That was it exactly—the one point on which he would stake everything and play out the game. Curse them and their childish tricks to frighten him! Exposure was the only thing he feared, because that would ruin every chance of success here; but if he was safe from exposure, or if exposure were only delayed long enough—and it need not be very long delayed, at that—he would have got, as he meant to get, in spite of God, or man, or the devil, what he had come for!
There was another angle. What had transpired41 might not have anything to do with what had brought him here.
Of course not! Why should it—essentially? But it was a menace, a hideous thing. It made him think of a picture he had seen somewhere—a gibbet at a bleak42, wind-swept, dark-skyed cross-road with a figure dangling43 from it. One of those damned steel-plate engravings of the highwaymen days in England!
The unknown!
For a moment he stood still—and then suddenly both fists were raised above his head. That was a reason above all others why he should go on. The stakes were on the table. It was not merely a question of old Marlin's money. Win or lose here, the menace of that voice that shrieked45 the name of Shadow Varne for all to hear now hung over his whole future. It must either be removed, or he, Shadow Varne, promised with ghastly certainty to take the place of that dangling, swaying thing upon the gibbet chain. The menace was here. What better chance was there to fight it than here and now? Who was the more cunning? Who would misplay a card?
Not Shadow Varne!
A grim and cold composure came. He had two birds to kill with one stone now—that was all! Frighten Shadow Varne away? Bah! They did not know Shadow Varne—save only as a name to be screeched47 out from some safe retreat in the darkness! What might transpire40 in the secret recesses48 of his heart, the purely49 human fact that dismay and fear might prey50 at ugly moments upon him, was one thing; to halt him, to make him even hesitate, was another! He had never hesitated; he had but moved the more quickly, speeded up his plans, for time was a greater object now. He was at work at this very moment—waiting until the house was quiet for the night.
Well, it was time now, wasn't it?
A small flashlight played on the dial of his wrist watch.
Just midnight!
He nodded his head sharply, slipped across the room, and, with the door ajar, stood listening. A minute passed—another. There was no sound. He stepped out into the great, wide hall, and closed his door softly behind him.
It was like a shadow moving now.
That was Locke's room there; Polly's here—Dora Marlin's opposite. He passed them by, silently descended51 the great staircase, made his way back along another wide hallway, and finally halted before a door. This was Mr. Marlin's room. He listened intently. The sound of regular breathing, as of one asleep, was distinctly audible from within.
He smiled grimly as he turned away, and cautiously let himself out through a French window in the living-room which opened on the verandah. From here, he dropped lightly to the lawn.
The money was not hidden in the house. He was spared from the start any loss of time in an abortive52 search of that kind. There was too much significance attached to the old maniac53's act of creeping stealthily in and out under his own verandah in the dead of night; especially when added to this had been the information gleaned54 from Polly that Mr. Marlin was in the habit of stealing out of the house at intervals55 for a succession of nights on end, though at a later hour each night. It was the obvious! But why a later hour each night? Rather queer! But the man's brain was queer! Why try to square insanity56 with the rational?
It was the secret under the verandah that interested him.
But his mind, as he made his way noiselessly along the edge of the bushes that fringed the verandah, reverted57 with a certain disturbing insistence58 to Polly. The girl hadn't stopped talking about going back to England! She said he had promised her she should when her education was finished. Well, perhaps he had—as one makes a promise to quiet a child! She wanted to be with her mother. Quite natural! But she hadn't any mother; and, if things went right here, he was rather inclined to believe that hereafter he preferred America to England as a permanent place of residence. He had reiterated59 his promise, of course. He couldn't afford to do anything else—yet. Sooner or later, he would have to "explain" to Polly; but when that time came, unless he had lost a certain facility in explanations that had never failed him yet, he should be able to turn even the fact that he had kept Mrs. Wickes' death from her to his own account. And tell the truth, even if somewhat inverted60, at that! Solicitude61 would be the keynote—that, since Mrs. Wickes was not really her mother, her visit here need not be spoiled by ill news that would keep. Solicitude—and all that sort of idea. It was a good thing Mrs. Wickes was dead. Polly wouldn't want to live in England now. Mrs. Wickes' death settled that problem, which, otherwise, he would have had to find some other way of settling.
A minor62 matter! Very minor! Why should it even have crossed his mind? There was first the money; then, as a corollary, when that was found, the distressingly63 fatal accident that would overtake poor old Mr. Marlin—and, woven into the warp64 and woof of this, the twisting of a certain windpipe that would screech46 its indiscretions for the last time to a far different tune65!
Ah, that was more like Shadow Varne!
He parted the bushes and slipped in under the verandah. This was the spot where the old madman had disappeared from view last night. His flashlight was switched on now. It showed a well-defined path, if it could be called a path, where through much usage the earth and gravel66 had been pressed down close up against the side of the house. It led toward the rear. He followed it. It took him around the corner of the house, and here, under a flight of steps that led to the verandah above, he found himself confronted with a basement door. Captain Francis Newcombe smiled. He had never ranked the task of probing the old fool's actions as one that demanded much ingenuity67, or as presenting any particular difficulty. It was simply a question of watching the other without being seen himself; and with the man's mode of exit and entry from and into the house already known, the rest would almost automatically take care of itself.
He opened the door and stepped inside. The flashlight disclosed an ordinary basement storeroom, and, at one side, a flight of stairs. Captain Francis Newcombe moved quickly, but without sound now. He crossed the basement and crept up the stairs. Here, at the top, another door confronted him. With the flashlight out, he opened this door cautiously—and again a smile touched his lips. He had rather expected it! The door opened on the lower hall, and almost directly opposite Mr. Marlin's room.
He stepped across the hall and listened again at the old man's door. There still came from within the sounds of occupancy; but instead now of the regular breathing as of one asleep, it was the sound as of one moving softly around within.
Captain Francis Newcombe retreated to the stairs, closed the door behind him, descended the stairs, left the basement, and selected a spot amongst the trees at the edge of the lawn where he could command a view of the shrubbery bordering the verandah. It was still a little earlier than the hour last night when, according to Polly, Mr. Marlin had gone out, and if, in the bizarre workings of a warped68 brain, a later hour each night added to secretness and security, Mr. Marlin was not yet to be expected for a little while. Quite so! He, Captain Francis Newcombe, had formulated69 his own timetable on that basis. There was nothing to do now but wait.
He frowned suddenly. Suppose, though, Mr. Marlin did not come out at all? This might well be one of the nights when— No! He shook his head decisively. To begin with, he had just heard the man moving around in his room after having previously70 been, or pretended that he had been, asleep; and if Polly's report was based on fact, as it undoubtedly71 was, the old maniac, once started on his period of peregrinations, kept it up until, on the basis of a later hour each night, his final sortie was made just before daybreak—and taking into account the hour at which the old man had been out last night, Mr. Marlin ought at present to be in the thick of one of those periods of nocturnal activity that would endure for a number of consecutive72 nights to come.
In a sort of grim mirth, he laughed softly now to himself. One night, not a number of nights, would be all that was required! It did not entail73 any distressingly laboured mental effort to understand why the old man went out—it was simply a question of where he went.
The minutes dragged along. A quarter of an hour went by; it became half an hour—and then Captain Francis Newcombe drew back silently a little deeper in amongst the trees. Yes, there was the old maniac now, dressing74 gown and all, and cocking his head to and fro in all directions as he parted the bushes in emerging from under the verandah. A moment later, the old man scurried75 across the lawn to a spot not far from where he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was standing76. The woods here surrounding the house were full of little paths and walks, and the grotesque77 figure with the flapping gown now disappeared along one of these paths a few yards away.
Captain Francis Newcombe's lips twisted a little ironically as he took up the chase. The head that kept cocking itself around so idiotically would avail its owner little in the shape of protection! Apart from it being too dark to see more than a few feet in any direction now in the wooded path, he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had not the slightest intention of trying to keep the other in sight, much less run any risk of being seen himself. The sense of sound was quite sufficient—entirely adequate! Twigs79 and dried pine needles snapped eloquently80 under Mr. Marlin's feet. Captain Francis Newcombe's ironical78 smile deepened. His own rubber-soled yachting shoes, combined with a little precaution, might be relied upon to cause the old maniac no alarm!
The chase led on, following the turnings and twistings of the path for perhaps three hundred yards, and then turned into a narrow intersecting by-path at the right. Here again Captain Francis Newcombe followed the sound of the other's footsteps for perhaps another hundred yards—and then suddenly he halted. The footsteps had ceased abruptly81.
For a moment Captain Francis Newcombe remained motionless, listening; then with extreme caution he went forward again. He came presently to where the path ended at the edge of a small clearing; and here, though shadowy and indistinct, he could make out just in front of him the outline of what looked like a little cabane, or hut. He nodded his head complacently82. From inside the hut he caught the sound of movement again. So this was where Mr. Marlin went at nights, was it!
He crept forward on hands and knees now, careful to make not the slightest noise, made the circuit of the little hut, and halted again—this time on the side opposite from the door and beneath the single window that the place possessed83. From what he had been able to make out in the darkness, the hut appeared to be in a more or less tumble-down and neglected condition. It was probably an old tool house or something of the sort. Well, that mattered very little!
With his head well at one side of the window frame to guard against any possibility of being seen from within, he brought his eyes to a level with the sill, and peered in. At first he could distinguish nothing; then gradually a shadowy figure took form in one corner and kept moving up and down with a motion, which, more than anything else that suggested itself to him, resembled the motion of a woman assiduously at work over a washboard. This was accompanied by a scraping sound.
Mr. Marlin was digging!
Captain Francis Newcombe quietly sat down on the ground beneath the window. It was quite hopeless to expect to see anything more than he had seen—for the present! One would have asked a good deal to have asked more! The spot where the old maniac was at work was close up against the wall at the right of the door and almost directly opposite the window!
The digging ceased. Another sound took its place—a sort of crooning, a sing-song droning sound. Words, snatches of sentences, became audible:
"... All! All here! ... In the darkness where no one can see.... And I do not need to see—I feel.... Night after night I feel, and my fingers count.... Money! Money! ... Ha, ha—and they do not understand.... Fools! All fools! ... You will multiply yourself a hundred, a thousandfold.... Fools! Blind fools! ... They would not listen.... They called me mad...."
The crooning went on.
Captain Francis Newcombe with cool nonchalance84 made himself more comfortable now by propping85 his back against the side of the hut. When the old fool was through with his puling, and the fondling of that half million in banknotes that he imagined was so safely hidden, the next move would be in order. Until then there was nothing to do except to exercise what degree of patience he could.
Patience! He stirred suddenly. Why exercise patience? Was it, after all, absolutely necessary that he should? A moment's work would do away with that senile old idiot now. Mr. Marlin would be found, but the money would not be found. That was the plan in its actual essence, wasn't it?
He snarled, then, angrily at himself under his breath. That was the method of the "cusher," which, on a certain occasion, he had branded with so much contempt! The record of Shadow Varne was marred86 by no such crudeness as that. A cusher without art! It brought him a sense of intense irritation87 that the thought should even have entered his mind.
Why had it?
He shook his head. Was it impatience88, or perhaps, rather, a prescience prompting him to be through and done with this with the least possible delay? Were the events that had happened since he had left England insidiously89 taking effect upon him to the detriment90 of his customary cold and measured judgment91? Well, he would see to it that nothing of that sort should happen! Crime was a science; its procedure was calculated, methodical, orderly, denying scruples92. He had always approached it as a science; he proposed never to approach it in any other way. The case in point, for instance: Once he knew exactly where this hidden half-million was, where he could lay his hands on it whenever he desired at an instant's notice—and he would locate its precise position inside the hut there as soon as the old maniac returned home to his bed—Mr. Marlin would be removed. But that must be accomplished93 apparently94 through an accident—and the accident must be such as to serve as proof, so to speak, that Captain Francis Newcombe could not possibly have had any part in it. This became the more essential now in view of that infernal voice last night. The nature of the accident itself was a mere44 detail. The choice was legion. There had been others who, becoming encumbrances95 in the path of Shadow Varne, had met with accidents. What folly96 to go in there now—and have the whole island aroused by the crime of murder and invaded by the police; with the crime itself proclaiming the fact that the murder had been done for the money the old madman was known to have had somewhere, but which was now obviously in the possession of some one, to wit, the murderer!
Bah! What was the matter with him? Did he need to rehearse the obvious? Mr. Marlin's secret would die with him; and, being unable to find the money, they would give the old maniac more credit for cunning and originality97 than was due to the moss-eaten method of selecting a hiding place under the floor of an old hut! The pitiful fool! Under the floor! That was where the treasure was always hidden—in every book he had ever read!
The crooning continued. It began to get a little on his nerves. It was interminable. Would the man stay here until daylight? No; that was hardly likely—not if he ran true to form. Old Marlin hadn't stayed out until daybreak last night when Polly and he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had watched the other go in under the verandah.
It might have been an hour, though it seemed two, when at last Captain Francis Newcombe rose silently to his feet. The crooning had finally ceased, and in its place there came now a series of low, thudding sounds, as though soft earth were being tamped98 into place; and then he heard the door creak a little as it was opened and closed. An instant later the footsteps of the old man died away along the path by which he had come.
Captain Francis Newcombe stepped quickly around to the other side of the hut, and tried the door. It was unlocked. He smiled in a sort of grim humour as he pushed it open, and, entering, closed it again behind him. That was the first sign of intelligence—no, applied99 to a maniac, it could hardly be termed intelligence!—well then, craftiness100 that measured up in at least a little way to the intensive order of cunning with which the insane in general were popularly credited. An unlocked door was no mean safe-guard. The last place one would expect to find, or look for, a half-million dollars would be behind an unlocked door!
His flashlight threw an inquisitive101 circle of light around the interior. Whatever the place had been used for at one time, it was decidedly neglected and in disuse now. The flooring was in an advanced state of decay. His eyes followed the ray of the flashlight as it held on a spot on the flooring near the door. Yes, knowing beforehand that some pieces of the flooring there had been lifted, he could see that such was the case in spite of the fact that the pieces had been very neatly102 replaced.
The flashlight continued its tour of inspection103. There was a pile of rubbish and some old barrels over in the far corner. He stepped quickly across to these and nodded his head sharply in satisfaction, as, tucked in behind the barrels, he found what he had been looking for. Mr. Marlin had been digging. Exactly! Here was the spade. He lifted it up and examined it. Particles of fresh earth still clung to it.
Captain Francis Newcombe stood still now for an instant to listen. And as he listened his brows gathered in a savage104 frown of annoyance105. Why this exaggerated precaution? What did he expect to hear? What sound could there be? The old fool was finished for the night. There wasn't the slightest chance that he would return. Why should he, Captain Francis Newcombe, waste time now, when with a moment's work he could satisfy himself that the half-million dollars that had brought him to Manwa Island was definitely within his reach? Was that it? Was it psychological? Was it that voice he was listening for again?
He swore fiercely under his breath in a sudden flood of blind rage at himself; and, crossing the hut, stood the spade up against the wall within reach, and knelt down on the floor with the flashlight playing on the two or three sections of board that the old man had removed. Yes, they were quite loose. His fingers worked their way into a crack between two of them. The old maniac's half-million! Hidden under the flooring! It was child's—
What was that?
He was on his feet, the flashlight out, every muscle tense, his revolver outflung before him.
In God's name, what was that?
It seemed to crash and thunder through the stillness.
Only a knock upon the door?
Again!
Once more—sharp, imperative106!
He stood motionless—his jaws clamped like iron. What was he to do? If he answered the summons—what then? How explain the presence here of Captain Francis Newcombe, the guest, who at this hour should be peacefully asleep in his bed? Who was it out there who had knocked upon the door? Not the old fool himself who might have come back. Old Marlin wouldn't have knocked. Who, then?
Strange! A full minute must have passed. Why were the knocks not repeated? There was no sound from without. He had heard no one approach—he had heard no one go away. Only the knocks upon the door.
He was listening now, every faculty107 alert. Was some one standing outside there, as tense, as silent, waiting—as he stood tense and silent, waiting, here within? If so, then, that was another angle to the situation. It must be so! There was not a sound out there—there had not been a sound. He had heard no one go away. Well, two could play at a game like that! And it would be the other who would show his hand!
He moved softly toward the door. In the darkness he felt out with his hand. It touched the panel of the door, crept down until it clasped the knob—and then suddenly, even as he moved swiftly to one side out of the direct line, he flung the door wide back upon its hinges.
And where the door had stood, there showed now but an oblong of filmy, hazy108 murk, scarcely more penetrable109 to the eye than the black interior of the hut. Nothing more! No, that was not true. There was something else—something white, a small white fluttering thing that seemed to drift and flutter downward to the ground. No sound from without—save the night sounds of the woods: The leaves talking to one another; the stir in the grasses; the low, faint, never-ending chatter110 of insects.
The watch ticking on Captain Francis Newcombe's wrist became a loud, discordant111 thing. It ticked away the minutes before he moved again.
His eyes became accustomed to the murk outside the open door. There was no one there.
That white thing lying by the threshold was an envelope. It had been stuck in the door. He reached out now, and picked it up. And now he closed the door again, and, with the flashlight on, he tore the envelope open.
He stared at the sheet of paper it contained. The single line of crude, printed letters seemed to leap out at him from the white sheet, scorching112, burning, searing its message into his consciousness. He raised his hand and drew it across his forehead. It came away wet with sweat. He looked around him, snarling like a beast at bay. A thousand minions113 of hell here in the hut were screeching114 in his ears the words he had just read:
"Who murdered Sir Harris Greaves?"
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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repression
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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drawn
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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debonair
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truce
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bunk
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complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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spawn
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| n.卵，产物，后代，结果；vt.产卵，种菌丝于，产生，造成；vi.产卵，大量生产 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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22
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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23
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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24
demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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25
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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27
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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28
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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29
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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30
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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31
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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32
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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33
jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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34
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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35
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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36
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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37
unctuously
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| adv.油腻地，油腔滑调地；假惺惺 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
transpire
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| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
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41
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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42
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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44
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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45
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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48
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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50
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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51
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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52
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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53
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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54
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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56
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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57
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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58
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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59
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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62
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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65
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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66
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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67
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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68
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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69
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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70
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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71
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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72
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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74
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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77
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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78
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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79
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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80
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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81
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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82
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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83
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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84
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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85
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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86
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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87
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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88
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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89
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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90
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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91
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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92
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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93
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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94
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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95
encumbrances
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| n.负担( encumbrance的名词复数 )；累赘；妨碍；阻碍 | |
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96
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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97
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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98
tamped
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| v.捣固( tamp的过去式和过去分词 )；填充；（用炮泥）封炮眼口；夯实 | |
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99
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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100
craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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101
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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102
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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103
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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104
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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105
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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106
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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107
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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108
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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109
penetrable
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| adj.可穿透的 | |
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110
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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111
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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112
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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113
minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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114
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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