“Thank you, dear brother,” said Tom. “Go home.”
Again a flutter of wings whispered in the air, and his forefinger was untenanted.
“That is what I have done,” he said. “But that is only the beginning.”
Evelyn gave a long sigh.
“Are you mad, or are we?” he asked. “Or was there a bird there? Or are you a hypnotist?”
He got up quickly.
“Phil, I swear I saw a bird, and heard it sing,” he said excitedly. “It was sitting there, there on his finger. What has happened? Go on, Tom—tell us what it means.”
“It means you are the son of a monkey, as Darwin proved,” said he, “and the grandson, so to speak, of a potato. That is all. It was a cousin of a kind that sat on my finger. Philip, with his gold and his Stock Exchange and his business generally, does much more curious things than that. But, personally, I do not find them so interesting.”
Philip, silent as was his wont when puzzled, instead of rushing into speech, had said nothing. But now he asked a question.
“Of course, it was not a conjuring trick,” he said. “That would be futility itself. But you used to have extraordinary hypnotic power, Tom. I only ask—Was that a real nightingale?”