"Not that, Benlian?" I cried breathlessly.
He nodded three or four times, and whispered. I really don't know why we both whispered.
"Really that, Benlian?" I whispered again.
"Shall I show you?… I tried my hardest not to, you know,…" he still whispered.
"Yes, show me!" I replied in a suppressed voice.
"Don't breathe a sound then! I keep them up there…."
He put his finger to his lips as if we had been two conspirators; then he tiptoed across the studio and went up to his bedroom in the gallery. Presently he tiptoed down again, with some rolled-up papers in his hand. They were photographs, and we stooped together over a little table. His hand shook with excitement.
"You remember this?" he whispered, showing me a rough print.
It was one of the prints from the fogged plates that I'd taken after that first night.
"Come closer to me if you feel frightened, Pudgie," he said. "You said they were old plates, Pudgie. No no; the plates were all right; it's I who am wrong!"