Mr. MacDougall, despite his knowledge, jumped as though stung, He adjusted his beret over to shrewd shiny face.
That's not Bill Praser," he said to HLM. That's your murder-party starting now. Come on!"
They gave only one glance towards the fretted circle in the ceiling, which showed the source of the voice. Following MacDougall, they hastened and stumbled forward among their own images. They took another right-angled turn — and came face to face with Martin Drake.
Chief Inspector Masters, who expected to meet his own reflection, was even more startled to see somebody else. Martin had just put down on the floor a piece of white paper torn in a thin strip from an envelope. A wave of relief went over his face, and something else as- well.
"It's the pipes at Lucknow," Martin said, and flung down the shredded envelope.
"This your friend?" hoarsely inquired Mr. MacDougall. "Good!" He eyed the strip on the floor. "Beg-pardon-I'm-sure; but what the 'ell are you doing?"
Martin looked at him. "For some minutes, now," he said, "I've been putting, these down to block up what I KNOW are dead-ends."
"Never mind that," snapped a glowering HM "Son, I've been worried. Have you met anybody?"
"Not met," said Martin. "I saw somebody with a damned brown coat and blue trousers, walking away from me. Then I ran into a sheet of plate glass. Then a voice; I found afterwards it was a loudspeaker; advised me to get to blazes out of here. That was when I started putting down papers. I wonder if Houdini ever tried this blasted place?"
Mr. MacDougall, immensely pleased, did a little tap-dance; and then nervousness smote him.