"I can't help that They were there earlier."
"I say, Masters." H.M. raised his head briefly. "Could they 'a' been the same glasses George Fleet used on the famous day?"
Masters simmered. "For the last time, Sir Henry—" "Will I stop babblin' about field-glasses, you mean? Oh, Masters, I know there were no hokey-pokey spikes to stick him in the eye! But I gather the field-glasses weren't busted; they fell just wide of the terrace and on the grass. And that's why the policeman picked 'em up and carried 'em inside." "Yes!"
H.M., an unlighted cigar in his fingers, craned round in his chair to blink at Martin.
"Now tell me, son," he said. "Supposing, Just supposing!) these were the same glasses! Were they a good pair? Good lenses? Easy focus? No blurrin' that would…" He paused. "Were they?"
"As I told you," Martin returned, "I didn't look through them very long. But they were in first-rate condition. I’ll swear to that"
"That's good news," breathed H.M. "Oh, my eye! That helps a lot."
Masters was unable to yank down his bowler hat on his bead, since he was not wearing it, but his gesture conveyed this.
"The field-glasses," he said, with strong self-control, "were in A-l order. They, had nothing wrong with them. And therefore (eh?) they're a great big smacking-sure help to us?"
"That's right, Masters."