The Shark pulled off his spectacles; held the lenses to the light; inspected them closely; shook his head.
“No; they’re not clouded,” said he, half to himself. “Very curious, I do declare!”
“What’s curious? And what are you driving at?”
“Of course, it might have been a tricky reflection,” mused the Shark. “Or, maybe, it was just an optical illusion.”
Sam caught him by both shoulders. “Wake up! What are you talking about?”
“Then, again, the doctor tells me eye-strain works queerly sometimes.”
Sam shook the slender youth vigorously. “Get back to earth! Let’s have some sense out of all this. Thought you saw something, didn’t you? Well, what was it?”
“Man looking in the window!” said the other calmly.
“Oh!” cried Sam, and whipped about. Certainly no face now was pressed against the pane. He ran to the door, opened it, and sprang into darkness, closely followed by all the other members of the club except the Shark, who was busying himself in polishing his glasses and replacing them on his nose. This task was completed to his satisfaction when the boys came straggling back. Their search had been utterly without result.
They crowded about the Shark, and rained questions upon him. Just what had he seen? How long had he seen it? What had he to say for himself, anyway?