And hearing himself so speak, he sat aghast; it was horrible thus to be denying the light that was in him. Yet what else could he say, so as to be believed?
‘How do you put it on?’ pursued his interrogator. ‘What is it, luminous paint?’
‘No, nothing of that sort,’ he replied. ‘It’s a secret. I mustn’t explain.’
And then, though he had not reached his destination, unable to bear it any more, he called for a stop and got out.
Having alighted on the pavement, feeling painfully the concentration of at least twenty-four pairs of eyes upon his back, he put up his umbrella to cut off the view, though it had really ceased to rain, and made haste away.
Somebody had got out after him. He heard steps insistently close following him; then a voice speaking the American accent.
‘Say! pardon me, sir. Do you mind telling whether you are advertising that as a patent? Can be got anywhere?’
‘No, it can’t exactly be got,’ said Mr. Trimblerigg, whose own more insistent question was whether it could be got rid of. ‘It isn’t mine. I’m just trying it.’
‘It’s very remarkable, very striking,’ said his interlocutor. ‘There’s a future in that contraption, sure; or I’m much mistaken. You’ve patented it, I suppose, before bringing it out? If you’re needing capital to develop it, I’m your man.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr. Trimblerigg hastily. ‘I don’t want to develop it. It’s developing itself; and—and,’ he hesitated—‘it isn’t for sale!’