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"I think my husband was nailing it up recently." By some strange fatality Carrados's most aimless remarks seemed to involve the absent Mr. Creake. "Do you care to see the garden?" The garden proved to be extensive and neglected. Behind the house was chiefly orchard. In front, some semblance of order had been kept up; here it was lawn and shrubbery, and the drive they had walked along.
"At all events," retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under this good-humoured satire, although it was easy enough to see in it Carrados's affectionate intention "at all events, I dare say I can give as good a description of Parkinson as he can give of me." "That is what we are going to test. Ring the bell again." "Seriously?" "Quite. I am trying my eyes against yours.
Carrados?" asked Drishna shrewdly. Carrados's hand closed on the weapon that still lay on the table between them. Without a word he pushed it across. "I see," commented Drishna, with a short laugh and a gleaming eye. "Shoot myself and hush it up to suit your purpose. Withhold my message to save the exposures of a trial, and keep the flame from the torch of insurrectionary freedom."
Carrados's sightless eyes had the one quality of concealing emotion supremely. "Oh," he commented softly, "always; and it was quite a saying, was it? And why was it always so on Thursday?" "It had to do with the early closing, I'm told. The suburban traffic was a bit different.
"The ruler was marked at four and seven-eighths inches the measure of the glass of the signal lamp outside." The unfortunate young man was unable to repress a start. His face lost its healthy tone. Then, with a sudden impulse, he made a step forward and snatched the object from Carrados's hand.
Carrados's right hand, lying idly on the table, moved to a newspaper near. He ran his finger along a column heading, his eyes still turned towards his visitor. "'The Money Market. Continued from page 2. British Railways," he announced. "Extraordinary," murmured Carlyle. "Not very," said Carrados.
His eyes were unable to detach themselves for a single moment from the very ordinary spectacle of Mr. Carrados's mildly benevolent face, while the sterilized ghost of his now forgotten amusement still lingered about his features. "Good heavens!" he managed to articulate, "how do you know?" "Isn't that what you wanted of me?" asked Carrados suavely. "Don't humbug, Max," said Carlyle severely.
He now turned and stood up with an expression of formal courtesy. "It's very good of you to see me at this hour," apologised Mr. Carlyle. The conventional expression of Mr. Carrados's face changed a little. "Surely my man has got your name wrong?" he explained. "Isn't it Louis Calling?" Mr. Carlyle stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a sudden flash of anger or annoyance.
Carlyle's feeling was one of unconfessed perplexity. So far the incident was utterly trivial in his eyes; but he knew that the trifles which appeared significant to Max had a way of standing out like signposts when the time came to look back over an episode. Carrados's sightless faculties seemed indeed to keep him just a move ahead as the game progressed.
"Amiable and thrice lucky mortal," sighed Mr. Carlyle, his glance wandering round the room. But, as it happened, Brighton did not figure in that day's itinerary. It had been Carrados's intention merely to pass Brookbend Cottage on this occasion, relying on his highly developed faculties, aided by Mr. Carlyle's description, to inform him of the surroundings.
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