Chris looked about and got up. He looked under the chairs, under the table, behind the curtains, up the chimney, up the spiral staircase, out the windows—in short, everywhere and anywhere a man might hide, and in a great many places where it was impossible for him to be. Finally he stood in the middle of the room.
"You're not here," he said aloud.
"Oh, yes, I am," said Mr. Wicker's voice. "Look on the table."
Chris looked on the table. A bowl of flowers stood in the center. A small silver tray with a finely blown glass and a round-bellied silver pitcher of water stood at one side. A few leather-bound books were all else to be seen, except—if one could count that—a bluebottle fly that buzzed, lit on the flowers, and buzzed again.
"It's not fair!" Chris challenged aloud. "You've got some trick hiding place. You're just not here."
"Yes I am," came the voice. "I am within reach of your hand, Christopher," Mr. Wicker told him. "And I will reappear in whatever part of the room you wish. Choose."
Chris looked around him, and then pointed to the end window.
"There," he said, "by the window. There's nothing anywhere around it. Come back there."