Thus released the cube rose to the ceiling, lifting the four gentlemen with it. They hung in mid-air until Quinn drew the table under them, and they dropped to its top, each in turn, and so reached the floor.
Bewilderment was written large in the faces of the quartet, their credulity struggling against the evidence of their senses.
"You are a good magician, sir," averred Popham, brushing the damp from his forehead with a handkerchief.
"You could make your fortune as an entertainer," declared Gilhooly.
J. Archibald Meigs chewed briskly on an unlighted cigar, while Hannibal Markham kept his eyes on the cube and dangling chain like one fascinated.
"It is the fate of a man who makes startling discoveries to be classed among disciples in black art," observed Quinn calmly. "What is the hour, Mr. Gilhooly?" he asked.
The head of the railway pool consulted his repeater.
"Eleven-fourteen," he replied.
"And high time I was going," added Popham.
"Just a few moments more," said the professor.