“Tchoo!”
“What?” said Jane.
“I didn’t speak,” said Mr. Mortimer. “Who am I to speak?” he went on bitterly. “Who am I that it should be supposed that I have anything sensible to suggest?”
“Somebody spoke,” said Jane. “I….”
“Achoo!”
“Do you feel a draught, Mr. Bennett?” cried Jane sharply, wheeling round on him.
“There is a draught,” began Mr. Bennett.
“Well, finish sneezing and I’ll go on.”
“I didn’t sneeze!”
“Somebody sneezed.”
“It seemed to come from just behind you,” said Mrs. Hignett nervously.
“It couldn’t have come from just behind me,” said Jane, “because there isn’t anything behind me from which it could have….” She stopped suddenly, in her eyes the light of understanding, on her face the set expression which was wont to come to it on the eve of action. “Oh!” she said in a different voice, a voice which was cold and tense and sinister. “Oh, I see!” She raised her gun, and placed a muscular forefinger on the trigger. “Come out of that!” she said. “Come out of that suit of armour and let’s have a look at you!”
“I can explain everything,” said a muffled voice through the vizor of the helmet. “I can—achoo.” The smoke of the cigarette tickled Sam’s nostrils again, and he suspended his remarks.
“I shall count three,” said Jane Hubbard. “One—two—”
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” said Sam petulantly.
“You’d better!” said Jane.
“I can’t get this dashed helmet off!”
“If you don’t come quick, I’ll blow it off.”
Sam stepped out into the hall, a picturesque figure which combined the costumes of two widely separated centuries. Modern as far as the neck, he slipped back at that point to the Middle Ages.
“Hands up!” commanded Jane Hubbard.
“My hands are up!” retorted Sam querulously, as he wrenched at his unbecoming headwear.
“Never mind trying to raise your hat,” said Jane. “If you’ve lost the combination, we’ll dispense with the formalities. What we’re anxious to hear is what you’re doing in the house at this time of night, and who your pals are. Come along, my lad, make a clean breast of it and perhaps you’ll get off easier. Are you a gang?”
“Do I look like a gang?”
“If you ask me what you look like….”
“My name is Marlowe … Samuel Marlowe….”
“Alias what?”
“Alias nothing! I say my name is Samuel Marlowe….”
An explosive roar burst from Mr. Bennett. “The scoundrel! I know him! I forbade him the house, and….”
“And by what right did you forbid people my house, Mr. Bennett?” said Mrs. Hignett with acerbity.
“I’ve rented the house, Mortimer and I rented it from your son….”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Jane Hubbard. “Never mind about that. So you know this fellow, do you?”
“I don’t know him!”
“You said you did.”
“I refuse to know him!” went on Mr. Bennett. “I won’t know him! I decline to have anything to do with him!”
“But you identify him?”
“If he says he’s Samuel Marlowe,” assented Mr. Bennett grudgingly, “I suppose he is. I can’t imagine anybody saying he was Samuel Marlowe if he didn’t know it could be proved against him.”
“Are you my nephew Samuel?” said Mrs. Hignett.
“Yes,” said Sam.
“Well, what are you doing in my house?”
“It’s my house,” said Mr. Bennett, “for the summer, Henry Mortimer’s and mine. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
“Dead right,” said Mr. Mortimer.
“There!” said Mr. Bennett. “You hear? And when Henry Mortimer says a thing, it’s so. There’s nobody’s word I’d take before Henry Mortimer’s.”
“When Rufus Bennett makes an assertion,” said Mr. Mortimer, highly flattered by these kind words, “you can bank on it, Rufus Bennett’s word is his bond. Rufus Bennett is a white man!”
The two old friends clasped hands with a good deal of feeling.
“I am not disputing Mr. Bennett’s claim to belong to the Caucasian race,” said Mrs. Hignett, “I merely maintain that this house is….”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” interrupted Jane. “You can thresh all that out some other time. The point is, if this fellow is your nephew, I don’t see what we can do. We’ll have to let him go.”
“I came to this house,” said Sam, raising his vizor to facilitate speech, “to make a social call….”