Masters's gaze had strayed towards H.M.; and, after a pause, Masters's expression became that of one who sees a prayed-for portent in the sky.
H.M. had sat up straight His mouth fell open, and the unlighted cigar dropped out and rolled on the carpet. His look was fixed straight ahead behind the big spectacles; his hands were on the arm of the chair, his elbows hooked as though to push himself up. His voice, astounded, started from deep in the cellar and was at the same level when it emerged.
"Wait a minute!" H.M. begged. "Lemme think! Stop babblin' and lemme think!"
Nobody spoke. Martin, Ruth, and Stannard exchanged inquiring glances; Masters remained very quiet indeed; and H.M. fiercely pressed his hands over his head.
"But that couldn't be," H.M. addressed the empty air. "It couldn't be, unless… yes, burn me there was!"
His hands dropped again to the arms of the chair. With some effort he propelled himself to his feet
"I got to go and look at something," he explained, with an — air of haste and absent-minded apology. "I've been an awful ass; but I got to go and look at something now. You stay here. You play bridge or something." And he lumbered across to the hall door, where he turned right towards the interior of the house.
"By George," breathed Masters, "the old bounder's got it!"
Martin stared after H.M. "Got what?"
"Never you mind that, sir," Masters said cheerfully. "We'll get back to business. Now, Mr. Stannard!"