‘Until the sun grows cold.’
‘And then?’
‘There’ll be no defence,—nothing to defend.’
He looked at me with his calm, grave eyes.
‘The theory of the Age of Ice towards which we are advancing is not a cheerful one.’ He began to finger a glass retort which lay upon a table. ‘By the way, it was very good of you to give me a look in last night. I am afraid you thought me peremptory,—I have come to apologise.’
‘I don’t know that I thought you peremptory; I thought you—queer.’
‘Yes.’ He glanced at me with that expressionless look upon his face which he could summon at will, and which is at the bottom of the superstition about his iron nerve. ‘I was worried, and not well. Besides, one doesn’t care to be burgled, even by a maniac.’
‘Was he a maniac?’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Very clearly.’