“What’s the matter?” Bernald gasped.
“My match wasn’t out. In another minute the destruction of the library of Alexandria would have been a trifle compared to what you’d have seen.” Winterman, with his large deep laugh, shook out the smouldering sheets. “And I should have been a pensioner on Doctor Bob the Lord knows how much longer!”
Bernald pulled himself together. “You’ve really got going again? The thing’s actually getting into shape?”
“This particular thing is in shape. I drove at it hard all last week, thinking our friend’s brother would be down on Sunday, and might look it over.”
Bernald had to repress the tendency to another wild laugh.
“Howland—you meant to show Howland what you’ve done?”
Winterman, looming against the moonlight, slowly turned a dusky shaggy head toward him.
“Isn’t it a good thing to do?”
Bernald wavered, torn between loyalty to his friends and the grotesqueness of answering in the affirmative. After all, it was none of his business to furnish Winterman with an estimate of Howland Wade.
“Well, you see, you’ve never told me what your line is,” he answered, temporizing.