The terrorist, as he called himself, was old and bald, with a narrow, snow-white wisp of a goatee hanging limply from his chin.

An extraordinary expression of underhand malevolence survived in his extinguished eyes.

When he rose painfully the thrusting forward of a skinny groping hand deformed by gouty swellings suggested the effort of a moribund murderer summoning all his remaining strength for a last stab.

He leaned on a thick stick, which trembled under his other hand.
"I have always dreamed," he mouthed fiercely, "of a band of men absolute in their resolve to discard all scruples in the choice of means, strong enough to give themselves frankly the name of destroyers, and free from the taint of that resigned pessimism which rots the world.

No pity for anything on earth, including themselves, and death enlisted for good and all in the service of humanity--that's what I would have liked to see." His little bald head quivered, imparting a comical vibration to the wisp of white goatee.