He took the flask and was lifting it. But his jaw dropped and his hand hung arrested.
“He’s going to faint,” I cried. “The strain——”
“Strain on your grandmother, Ducie! What’s that?”
He was staring past my shoulder, and on the instant I was aware of a voice—not the aëronaut’s—speaking behind me, and, as it were, out of the clouds—
“I tak’ ye to witness, Mister Byfield——”
Consider, if you please. For six days I had been oscillating within a pretty complete circumference of alarms. It is small blame to me, I hope, that with my nerve on so nice a pivot, I quivered and swung to this new apprehension like a needle in a compass-box.
On the floor of the car, at my feet, lay a heap of plaid rugs and overcoats, from which, successively and painfully disinvolved, there emerged first a hand clutching a rusty beaver hat, next a mildly indignant face, in spectacles, and finally the rearward of a very small man in a seedy suit of black. He rose on his knees, his finger-tips resting on the floor, and contemplated the aëronaut over his glasses with a world of reproach.
“I tak’ ye to witness, Mr. Byfield!”
Byfield mopped a perspiring brow.
“My dear sir,” he stammered, “all a mistake—no fault of mine—explain presently”; then, as one catching at an inspiration, “Allow me to introduce you. Mr. Dalmahoy, Mr.——”