is adventure of ours was destined to differ in one respect from others
which I have narrated. I had been through many wild days with Basil
Grant, days for the first half of which the sun and the moon seemed to
have gone mad. But it had almost invariably happened that towards the
end of the day and its adventure things had cleared themselves like the
sky after rain, and a luminous and quiet meaning had gradually dawned
upon me. But this day's work was destined to end in confusion worse
confounded. Before we left that house, ten minutes afterwards, one
half-witted touch was added which rolled all our minds in cloud. If
Rupert's head had suddenly fallen off on the floor, if wings had begun
to sprout out of Greenwood's shoulders, we could scarcely have been more
suddenly stricken. And yet of this we had no explanation. We had to go
to bed that night with the prodigy and get up next morning with it and
let it stand in our memories for weeks and months. As will be seen, it
was not until months afterwards that by another accident and in another
way it was explained. For the present I only state what happened.

When all five of us went down the kitchen stairs again, Rupert leading,
the two hosts bringing up the rear, we found the door of the prison
again closed. Throwing it open we found the place again as black as
pitch. The old lady, if she was still there, had turned out the gas: she
seemed to have a weird preference for sitting in the dark.

Without another word Rupert lit the gas again. The little old lady
turned her bird-like head as we all stumbled forward in the strong
gaslight. Then, with a quickness that almost made me jump, she sprang up
and swept a sort of old-fashioned curtsey or reverence. I looked
quickly at Greenwood and Burrows, to whom it was natural to suppose this
subservience had been offered. I felt irritated at what was implied in
this subservience, and desired to see the faces of the tyrants as they
received it. To my surprise they did not seem to have seen it at all:
Burrows was paring his nails with a small penknife. Greenwood was at the
back of the group and had hardly entered the room. And then an amazing
fact became apparent. It was Basil Grant who stood foremost of the
group, the golden gaslight lighting up his strong face and figure. His
face wore an expression indescribably conscious, with the suspicion of
a very grave smile. His head was slightly bent with a restrained bow. It
was he who had ack