is face. The mirror happened to catch it for an instant.

"Physical habit is a wonderful thing. I did not shift hand or foot on
the controlling mechanism of the car. Indeed, I dare say it steadied me
against the shock to have myself braced to the business of driving. You
have read in books, I dare say, of hell looking out of a man's eyes, but
perhaps you don't know what a good metaphor that is. If I had not known
Manderson was there, I should not have recognized the face. It was that
of a madman, distorted, hideous in the imbecility of hate, the teeth
bared in a simian grin of ferocity and triumph, the eyes--! In the
little mirror I had this glimpse of the face alone; I saw nothing of
whatever gesture there may have been as that writhing white mask glared
after me. And I saw it only for a flash. The car went on, gathering
speed, and as it went, my brain, suddenly purged of the vapors of doubt
and perplexity, was as busy as the throbbing engine before my feet. I
knew.

"You say something in that manuscript of yours, Mr. Trent, about the
swift, automatic way in which one's ideas arrange themselves about some
new, illuminating thought. It is quite true. The awful intensity of
ill-will that had flamed after me from those straining eyeballs had
poured over my mind like a search-light. I was thinking quite clearly
now, and almost coldly, for I knew what--at least I knew whom--I had to
fear, and instinct warned me that it was not a time to give room to the
emotions that were fighting to possess me. The man hated me insanely.
That incredible fact I suddenly knew. But the face had told me--it would
have told anybody--more than that. It was a face of hatred gratified, it
proclaimed some damnable triumph. It had gloated over me driving away to
my fate. This too was plain to me. And to what fate?

"I stopped the car. It had gone about two hundred and fifty yards, and a
sharp bend of the road hid the spot where I had set Manderson down. I
lay back in the seat and thought it out. Something was to happen to me.
In Paris? Probably--why else should I be sent there, with money and a
ticket? But why Paris? That puzzled me, for I had no melodramatic ideas
about Paris. I put the point aside for a moment. I turned to the other
things that had roused my attention that evening. The lie about my
'persuading him to go for a moonlight run.' What was the intention of
that? Manderson, I said to myself, will be returning without me while I
am on m