The journalist looked all about as though seeking something.
“Where are the mirrors?” asked Padre Camorra.
Ben-Zayb looked and looked, felt the table with his fingers, raised the cloth again, and rubbed his hand over his forehead from time to time, as if trying to remember something.
“Have you lost anything?” inquired Mr. Leeds.
“The mirrors, Mister, where are the mirrors?”
“I don’t know where yours are—mine are at the hotel. Do you want to look at yourself? You’re somewhat pale and excited.”
Many laughed, in spite of their weird impressions, on seeing the jesting coolness of the American, while Ben-Zayb retired, quite abashed, to his seat, muttering, “It can’t be. You’ll see that he doesn’t do it without mirrors. The table will have to be changed later.”
Mr. Leeds placed the cloth on the table again and turning toward his illustrious audience, asked them, “Are you satisfied? May we begin?”
“Hurry up! How cold-blooded he is!” said the widow. [[168]]
“Then, ladies and gentlemen, take your seats and get your questions ready.”