The sky was growing darker, over a buzz and paper-crackle from an army at sandwich-eating. Some female singer, whose voice reminded Martin of Lady Brayle, had joined the brass-band and urged it to softness. Martin heard one line above the heavy lion-purr of the band:
"Ma-o-a-x-wel-l-l-ton's braes are bo-o-n-n-ie—"
Then he ducked past the mattressy black felt, became entangled in another black curtain, and twisted himself free from that.
"H.M.?’ he shouted.
Inside the circular structure was another structure: almost as large, but square and painted black. It had only one door, opening into a broad corridor, dimly lighted and lined with polished looking-glass.
To Martin, as he crossed the threshold of the Mirror Maze, it seemed he was walking into a gigantic box-camera.
"Oil H.M.! Where are your he called. But the shout seemed lifeless, flat, stifled, as he strode along the corridor.
(I know it's an optical trick, but this corridor looks as long as something at Versailles. It isn't actually broad, either; I can touch each, side by stretching out my hands. Also, I can see the joinings down the mirrors. Of course the corridor's not long! Two turnings here.)
Martin took one turning. He walked a dozen feet farther, and took another.
"HM., don't try to play the fool! This is only a little place; you can't help hearing me. They know you're here!"