Eldridge and Hallowell shook their heads.
"I have failed," said Eldridge.
"I am a reporter," said Hallowell.
"We are in the hands of God," announced Lyons with great solemnity, and
folded his hands over his white waistcoat.
At that moment the door slowly swung open and Percy Darrow entered. He was
smoking a cigarette, his hands were thrust deep in his trousers pockets;
he was hatless, and his usually smooth hair was rumpled. A tiny wound
showed just above the middle of his forehead, from which a thin stream of
blood had run down to his eyebrows. He surveyed the room with a humorous
twinkle shining behind his long lashes.
"Well, well, well, well!" he remarked in a cheerful tone of voice. "This
is a nice, jolly, Quaker meeting! Why don't you get out and make a noise
and celebrate, like your friends outside?"
"Thought you'd ducked," remarked Hallowell. The others said nothing, but
looked a grave disapproval.
Darrow laughed.
"No, I had to come back to see how Eldridge is getting on." He cast a
glance at the scientist. "How goes it, old socks?" he inquired.
The man's manner, the tone of his voice, seemed as much out of place in
this atmosphere of solemnity as a penny whistle in a death chamber. Darrow
refused to notice the general attitude of disapproval, but planted himself
in front of Eldridge.
"All in?" he challenged. "Or do you still cherish any delusions that you
will get your man inside of"--he looked at his watch--"eleven minutes?"
A visible stir ran through the room at these words.
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