Somehow or other, stunned and speechless, we lifted ourselves
heavily into the opening. We fell into the full glow of a lamp-lit,
cushioned, tiny room, with a circular wall lined with books, a
circular table, and a circular seat around it. At this table sat
three people. One was Basil, who, in the instant after alighting
there, had fallen into an attitude of marmoreal ease as if he had
been there from boyhood; he was smoking a cigar with a slow
pleasure. The second was Lieutenant Drummond Keith, who looked
happy also, but feverish and doubtful compared with his granite
guest. The third was the little bald-headed house-agent with the
wild whiskers, who called himself Montmorency. The spears, the
green umbrella, and the cavalry sword hung in parallels on the
wall. The sealed jar of strange wine was on the mantelpiece, the
enormous rifle in the corner. In the middle of the table was a
magnum of champagne. Glasses were already set for us.
The wind of the night roared far below us, like an ocean at the
foot of a light-house. The room stirred slightly, as a cabin might
in a mild sea.
Our glasses were filled, and we still sat there dazed and dumb.
Then Basil spoke.
"You seem still a little doubtful, Rupert. Surely there is no
further question about the cold veracity of our injured host.
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