My thoughts were dispersed by voices from below, resounding up through the cleft of the stairs. From a background of concerted sound, a series of short staccato phrases detached themselves:—
“My ’at! Look at it! Ruined! Smashed!”
I looked over the banister. On the floor below stood the count addressing Miss Bliss, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Hazard and Mr. Weatherby, who stood ranged in their hallway in a single line, staring up at him. In one extended arm he held out a silk hat in a condition of collapse. Their four upturned faces were solemn and intent. Miss Bliss’ mouth was slightly open, Mr. Hamilton’s glasses glittered.
“What’s the matter?” I called, beginning to descend.
The count lifted a wrathful visage and shook the hat at me.
“Look at my ’at.”
A chorus rose from the floor below:
“Some one smashed his hat.”
“Threw an orange on it.”
“He says it came from here.”