Then Cosgrove shifted, and the drama of three seconds, which has taken three pages to describe, was over.
Chairs scraped; we rose to our several heights. “Lib” and Bob were distinctly the shortest among us, and Doctor Aire was not much taller. But the physician, standing up, was the strangest creature in the room—a clockwork man.
That broad-shouldered body in the tweed-suiting was boiler-shaped, and the long, gaunt arms and short, stodgy legs, seemed casual appendages joined at convenient locations. Atop this mechanical contrivance his head stuck like an absurd plaster carving on a pedestal. I could not but feel a queer, half-repugnant sensation when, on my being introduced to him, his yellowy, almost Chinese-looking face was close to mine, and I saw only the blue shadows where his eyes had retreated and the narrow-lipped mouth nigh to white in its bloodlessness.
I looked about to be presented to the pair of young Americans; they had already skipped out of the room.
“Since it’s still raining and we’re tired of the things we’ve been doing anyhow, we’re going to get Doctor Aire to tell us about the old magic in this neighbourhood,” said Alberta.
“That will be frightfully jolly,” I remarked, surprised at the bizarre field of knowledge evidently studied by the physician.
“I’m afraid it will be, as you say, ‘frightfully jolly,’ ” remarked Doctor Aire, with his smile at the very ends of his mouth. “I’m not sure the subject—in view of events—”
“Why not the new magic instead?” asked Crofts.
Doctor Aire turned his head sharply; I almost expected to hear a ratchet click. “What’s that?”
“The stuff in old Watts’ attic, I mean. We’ve found a conjurer’s outfit there, Doctor. Why not give ’em a show? That performance of yours at Coventry was as good as any professional’s.”