Kellerman did not seem elated.
“I don’t mind listening to your story,” said he, “on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you will not be offended if I switch you off if the thing palls and hand you your hat, for I must tell you that though I came down here to get sleep, I do most of my sleeping between two in the morning and noon. I work at night and I had intended working to-night.”
“Oh, you can switch me off when you like,” said Jones.
Supper being finished, Kellerman fastened the window, and, carrying the lamp, led the way to a comfortably furnished study. Here he produced cigars and put a little kettle on a spirit stove to make tea.
Then, sitting opposite to his host, in a comfortable armchair, Jones began his story.
He had told his infernal story so often that one might have fancied it a painful effort, even to begin. It was not. He had now an audience in touch with him. He suppressed names, or rather altered them, substituting Manchester for Rochester and Birdwood for Birdbrook. The audience did not care, it recked nothing of titles, it wanted Story—and it got it.
At about one o’clock the recital was interrupted whilst tea was made, at two o’clock or a little after the tale finished.
“Well?” said Jones.