“Can you smell anything?” a hoarse voice suddenly asked from the darkness.
Tarlyon lounged into the black room. But somehow, I did not feel called upon to follow. I leant against the door.
Deeply set in the darkness I could at last make out the faintly white patch which must be Antony’s shirt-front; and I wondered what tomfoolery he was up to now, asking stupid questions in a startling voice out of a poisonously dark room. I could smell nothing at all, and didn’t expect to.
“What kind of a smell?” Tarlyon asked—in a reasonable tone! He stood just within the door, his back to me.
“Can you smell nothing at all?” the hoarse, subdued voice asked again. “But, of course, it’s very faint now.”
Tarlyon put up his nose and sniffed. I sniffed. More than faint it was, I thought.
“Been smoking?” Tarlyon asked, and he sniffed again.
“No,” came a whisper.
“Oh,” said Tarlyon. This was lunatic talk, and I was just about to say so when Antony asked sharply:
“Why did you ask?”