"Well, you've done it now," said Symon, in his tranquil fashion.
Then after a pause he added, "I suppose they'll miss us sooner or
later, and no doubt they can get it open; but it may take some
little time."
There was a silence, and then the unconquerable Stinks observed:
"Rotten that I had to leave my electric torch."
"I think," said his uncle, with restraint, "that we are sufficiently
convinced of your interest in electricity."
Then after a pause he remarked, more amiably: "I suppose if I
regretted any of my own impedimenta, it would be the pipe. Though,
as a matter of fact, it's not much fun smoking in the dark.
Everything seems different in the dark."
"Everything is different in the dark," said a third voice, that of
the man who called himself a magician. It was a very musical voice,
and rather in contrast with his sinister and swarthy visage, which
was now invisible. "Perhaps you don't know how terrible a truth that
is. All you see are pictures made by the sun, faces and furniture
and flowers and trees. The things themselves may be quite strange to
you. Something else may be standing now where you saw a table or a
chair. The face of your friend may be quite different in the dark."
A short, indescribable noise broke the stillness.
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