"What?" she said quickly.
"At the Bell! That big plant I saw there! But it can't possibly…' He broke off, utterly bewildered.
"Did you see a plant there? You never told me."
"I forgot about it. It was one day when Charles and I were there. I got into the engine-room, and I was just thinking what a ridiculously big machine it was for the work it had to do when Spindle hustled me out. Yes, by Jove, and I wondered at the time why he seemed so upset at finding me there. But Wilkes gave a plausible sort of explanation, and I never thought any more about it. Why, good Lord, do you realise that if I'm right, and it's that plant that produces this light, and works the machine we can hear, Wilkes must be in this, up to the eyes?"
"Wilkes?" she repeated incredulously. "That fat, smiling landlord? He couldn't be!"
"I don't know so much. And that throws a fresh light on it. Strange! He's staying at the Bell. For all we know he and Wilkes are hand in glove over this."
"Oh, no!" she said. "It isn't Michael Strange! It can't be! Not after what he said to me! No, no, I won't believe that!"
He did not press the point. He stood still, listening to the throb and the muffled roar of the machine, trying to think what it could be. The noise it made stirred some chord of memory in his brain. Margaret started to speak, and he signed to her to be quiet, with a quick frown and a finger held up.
Suddenly he remembered. Once, a couple of years before, he had been shown over a model printing works. He swung round, and exclaimed beneath his breath: "Margaret! I believe it's a printing press!"
She waited, searching his face. He seemed to be listening more intently than ever. "I don't see…' she began.