“Did you ever go to Olympia? I did once to see a kind of play where the people said nothing, only ran about dressed up. They told me it was religious, the sort of thing a clergyman should study. I didn’t think it religious at all. It was all about a nun who had a baby.”
“Well, what of it?” snapped Bickley.
“Nothing particular, except that nuns don’t have babies, or if they do the fact should not be advertised. But I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking that this place is like an underground Olympia.”
“Oh, be quiet!” I said, for though Bastin’s description was not bad, his monotonous, drawling voice jarred on me in that solemnity.
“Be careful where you walk,” whispered Bickley, for even he seemed awed, “there may be pits in this floor.”
“I wish we had a light,” I said, halting.
“If candles are of any use,” broke in Bastin, “as it happens I have a packet in my pocket. I took them with me this morning for a certain purpose.”
“Not unconnected with the paraffin and the burning of the idol, I suppose?” said Bickley. “Hand them over.”
“Yes; if I had been allowed a little more time I intended—”
“Never mind what you intended; we know what you did and that’s enough,” said Bickley as he snatched the packet from Bastin’s hand and proceeded to undo it, adding, “By heaven! I have no matches, nor have you, Arbuthnot!”