CHAPTER XX.
THE END OF THIS REMARKABLE STORY.
“Barbicane? Nicholl?”
“Maston!”
“You?”
“We!”
And in that pronoun, spoken simultaneously by the two in a singular tone, there was everything that could be said in the way of irony and reproach.
J. T. Maston passed his iron hook across his forehead. Then in a voice that hissed between his lips he asked,—
“Your gallery at Kilimanjaro was two thousand feet long and ninety in diameter?”
“Yes?”
“Your projectile weighed one hundred and eighty thousand tons?”