But Bob Cullen, whose excitement had flagged, was suddenly overwhelmed by his former audacity. “I—I suppose you folks must think—you must think—”
“That’s all right, Bob,” soothed Alberta; “you just lost your temper for a minute, that was all. Anybody is likely to do that.”
“He let Mr. Cosgrove get his goat,” put in Lib Dale in a sotto voce obbligato; she was still much displeased with her compatriot.
“I’m—I’m sorry—I apologize,” said Bob.
“As for me,” said Cosgrove suddenly, “I do more than apologize; I make anew.”
“Why, Sean, how—what can you mean?” gasped Alberta, for the Irishman now stood on his feet looking around the Hall without explaining his remark.
“Yes, it will do,” muttered Cosgrove. “God can come from there”; and he gestured toward the musicians’ gallery.
“G-g-god?” stammered Pendleton.
“God the Creator,” responded Sean Cosgrove, and he appended a few words as inconsequential as any Crofts himself could have used: “I’ve seen the book in your library.”
“But what do you mean, man?” cried Pendleton. “I never heard—”