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Soames groaned like a dying man, whispering: "I was... taken ill very ill."... "So you wreturn befowre the time awranged for you?" His metallic voice was sunk in a soothing hiss. He smiled steadily: he betrayed no emotion. "Yes... sir," whispered Soames, his hair clammily adhering to his brow and beads of perspiration trickling slowly down his nose.
This gaze was no different from that which habitually he directed upon the people of the catacombs. His yellow face was set in the same mirthless smile, and his eyebrows were raised interrogatively. For the space of ten seconds, he stood watching the man on the bed. Then: "You wreturn vewry soon, Mr. Soames?" he said, softly.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, confusedly, "but would there be any objection to my going out on Friday evening for an hour?" "Not at all, Soames," replied Ho-Pin, with his mirthless smile: "you may go at six, wreturn at ten." Ho-Pin passed on. Soames heaved a gentle sigh of relief. The painful incident was forgotten, then.
"And when you wreturn, you see and you hear stwrange things, Mr. Soames?" Soames, who was in imminent danger of becoming physically ill, gulped noisily. "No, sir," he whispered, tremulously, "I've been in here all the time." Ho-Pin nodded, slowly and sympathetically, but never removed the glittering eyes from the face of the man on the bed. "So you hear nothing, and see nothing?"
"Good night, M. Gaston!" said Gianapolis, in radiant benediction. "Au revoir, monsieur!" M. Max followed Ho-Pin to Block A and was conducted to a room at the extreme right of the matting-lined corridor. He glanced about it curiously. "If you will pwrepare for your flight into the subliminal," said Ho-Pin, bowing in the doorway, "I shall pwresently wreturn with your wings."
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