“A conjurer’s usually allowed a little patter, isn’t he? The quickness of the tongue distracts the eye, and all that. Just a question, then. Do you happen to remember what Medusa was able to do? Turned things into stone when she looked at them, didn’t she? That somehow brings the late Pygmalion to my mind—a kind of association of opposites, in a way, I suppose. But I’ve often wondered what Pygmalion felt like when the statue came to life.”
He turned sharply on his heel.
“You can come down off that pedestal, my friend. The game’s up!”
To the amazement of the group around him, the white marble statue above him started suddenly into life. It leapt down from its base on to the pavement of the terrace, staggered as it alighted, and then, as Cecil and Michael grasped at its smooth sides, it shook itself clear and sprang upon the broad marble balustrade.
“Come back, you fool!” Sir Clinton snapped, as the figure faced outward to the gulf below.
But instead of halting, the white form gathered itself together for an instant and then dived headlong into the abyss. There was the sound of a splash; and an appalling cry came up through the night.
Sir Clinton dashed to the rail.
“Below, there! Get out on that raft at once and pick him up. He’s badly hurt. He’ll drown if you don’t hurry.”
The Inspector hurried forward.
“Why didn’t you warn us, sir? We’d have had Marden as easy as anything. If you’d only told us what to expect.”