But this time the chair at the head of the table was occupied. No. 7 was in his place.

Bundle’s heart beat violently. She was standing at the foot of the table directly facing him and she stared and stared at the mocking piece of hanging stuff, with the clock dial on it, that hid his features.

He sat quite immovable and Bundle got an odd sensation of power radiating from him.

His inactivity was not the inactivity of weakness⁠—and she wished violently, almost hysterically, that he would speak⁠—that he would make some sign, some gesture⁠—not just sit there like a gigantic spider in the middle of its web waiting remorselessly for its prey.

She shivered and as she did so Mosgorovsky rose. His voice, smooth, silky, persuasive, seemed curiously far away.