"Now look!" he urged. "I'm leading the way. Three more turnings, and we're there. When I give the sign," he made gestures like a temple-dancer, to illustrate, "don't start to speak or mess about. For gossakes don't! Well be too near 'em!"
"Near them?" repeated Martin. "Near whom?"
"Go on!" urged the insistent voice from the ceiling, as though it were eerily feeling its way along the mirror walls. "Come a little closer! It's not so dark you can't make me out!"
"Son," H.M. said to Martin, "do you know who's speakin' now?"
"No!"
"It's Arthur Puckston. Puckston was the feller in the brown coat"
"You don't mean Puckston fa the… ‘
"Puckston's talking to somebody. That somebody killed George Fleet, killed and mutilated Enid Puckston, and almost murdered you: all the same somebody. We're ready, Mac-Dougall"
Though it took them three turnings and one fairly long corridor, it was only a matter of seconds until MacDougall gave the signal. Then Martin tried to straighten out his thoughts.
They all now stood facing down a short passage, not more than six or eight feet deep, with no other passage turning out of it. They stared at a dead-end of looking-glass.