“I have never touched it,” I replied grimly; “nor even any receptacle containing it.”
As I ceased speaking came a distant muffled rumbling.
“That’s the thunder,” said Hilton. “There’s a tremendous storm brewing.”
He poured out three glasses of whisky, and was about to speak when Soar held up a warning finger.
“Listen!” he said.
At his words, with tropical suddenness down came the rain.
Hilton, his pipe in his hand, stood listening intently.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir; the sound of the rain has drowned it.”
Indeed, the rain was descending in a perfect deluge, its continuous roar drowning all other sounds; but as we three listened tensely we detected a noise which hitherto had seemed like the overflowing of some spout.