Carpentaria and Ilam exchanged glances. Each read the thought of the other—that the spectacled Smithers might have overheard their conversation, and should therefore be handled with care, this side up. “Leave it to me,” said the eyes of Carpentaria to the eyes of Ilam.
“Mr. Smithers, of the Herald”—Carpentaria blossomed into the flowers of speech—“we heartily applaud your courage and your devotion to duty in a profession full of perils, but you are trespassing.”
“Excuse me, I’m not,” said Smithers. “You can only trespass on land and water, and this isn’t a salmon river or a forbidden footpath. Besides, I’ve got my press season-ticket. Come now, talk to me.”
“We are talking to you.”
“I mean, answer my questions, for the benefit of humanity. I’m the father of a family with two penniless aunts, and the Herald will probably sack me if I fail in this interview. Think of that.”
“I prefer not to think of it,” said Carpentaria. “However, we will answer any reasonable questions you care to put to us, on one condition.”
“Name it,” snapped Smithers.
“I will name it afterwards,” said Carpentaria, looking at Ilam.
“All right,” sighed Smithers, “I agree, whatever it is.”
“You look like an honourable man. I shall trust you,” Carpentaria remarked.