"Next," Hubbard went on, "you packed your wife and children off but refused to go away yourself."
"Naturally. When you get a downright facer like that you want to see it through."
"And when Rooke here wanted to sweep up the studio you told him not to."
"I did. And not to go into the cellar either."
"But he went into the cellar later?"
"Later—yes. The blinds were drawn then."
"Then are people only to go into the cellar when the blinds are drawn?"
"Oh no, not necessarily. A rug—or a bit of paper or a halfpenny—would do just as well."
Here Hubbard seemed suddenly to give it up. He leaned back in his chair. "Here, somebody else carry on for a bit," he puffed, almost as if he had been running; and instantly I took up the catechism.
"Of course, you mean the hole in the studio floor?" I challenged.