“Yes,” he said; “I wanted to talk to you about something particular.”
“Yes—what?” said Stratton sharply.
“Surely you were not coming away, and about to leave that lamp burning?”
“Was I going to leave the lamp burning?” said Stratton absently. “I suppose I forgot.”
“Well, don’t do that, then. This house is so full of wood that if it caught fire it would burn like tinder.”
“You think so?” said Stratton with a curious look in his eyes.
“That I do. In half an hour there wouldn’t be one of your preparations left. They, your furniture, the bric-à-brac, and your specimens in spirits, would be consumed and in ashes in no time.”
The strange look in Stratton’s eyes intensified, but Guest did not notice it, nor yet that his companion was letting his eyes wander around the old carved panelling with its oaken architraves and heavy plinths and mouldings.
For Guest was intent upon his own thoughts.
“Look here,” he said suddenly; “about Brettison?”