The Twickenham Peerage

She smiled. I held the door open for her mother and herself to leave the room. As she passed she whispered:

'I mean it.'

Reggie and I went away together. In the street he asked:

'Can I come in and see Violet?'

'Better not. At least not to-night. Just as well that you should sleep on it.'

'What do you mean by that?'

I considered a moment before I answered.

'You see, Reggie, we're all four of us playing the part of Don Quixote; Violet and you, Edith and I. I'm beginning to fear that we've been playing the part for years. It's all very well for us to talk of marrying the women of our hearts; but there are things to be considered. There are the women.'

'Would you have me throw Vi over?'

'The word's ill chosen. It ill becomes me to play the part of mentor after the way in which I've just behaved, but-suppose Twickenham were to turn up?'

'It would be pretty bad.'

'If that were all! I doubt if he'd give you a penny: as for me, he'd laugh me to scorn. You and I'd be beggars. Would it be chivalrous to drag the women into the ditch with us?'

'But Twickenham's dead.'

We've no proof of it. We've been looking for proof for some time. A pretty penny the search has cost us.'

'What makes you talk like this? You've seemed convinced enough about his being dead. You've gone Nap on it.'

'Precisely. And I'm now inclined to wonder if I haven't gone Nap on a pretty bad hand.'

'Surely you don't believe any of that stuff about my aunt's dreams?'

'Your aunt's dreams are neither here nor there. But between ourselves, I tell you candidly that I think it's quite possible that Twickenham's alive.'

'Good God! What have you heard?'

'I have heard nothing. By the purest accident I have chanced on what may turn out to be a clue. If it does, you shall hear more next week. At present I can tell you nothing.'

'Douglas, where is he?'

'You move too fast. I believe that it's still even betting that Twickenham's as dead as a coffin nail. But you will see for yourself why you and I should not pose as being too chivalrous, and especially why you should sleep upon the matter before having another interview with Vi. Good-night.'

I left him staring after me in Piccadilly. I was afraid of his asking inconvenient questions, just as I had been afraid of not saying anything at all. I might have lighted on a mare's nest, but in case I had not, it only seemed fair that he should have some sort of warning, so that the bolt might not descend on him altogether out of the blue.

Violet met me as soon as I entered the hall.

'Well, what has happened?'

I led the way back into the drawing-room, feeling indisposed to discuss delicate matters within quite such obvious sound of the servants' ears.

'I don't know that anything has happened.'

'Is Reggie going to marry Mary Magruder?'

'He says not.'

'Who is he going to marry?'

'He says he's going to marry you.'

'Douglas! In spite of Lady Desmond's prohibition? I suppose she did prohibit it?'

'Oh, yes, she did that right enough. But he did not seem disposed to lay much stress upon Lady Desmond's prohibition; as you probably expected.' I was convinced that she would have been a surprised young woman if he had paid attention to anything his aunt might have had to say on such a matter. 'At the same time, if you will take my advice, you won't attach weight to anything Reggie may have said, either one way or the other. I, for instance, have promised to marry Edith-again in the face of Lady Desmond's prohibition. But I think it possible that, before very long, neither he nor I may be in a position to marry any one.'

'Do you think that want of money will make any difference to Edith or to me?'

'I do not. But I am sure that neither of you would feel disposed to be a clog upon your husband.'

'A clog! I a clog on Reggie? Rather than I'd be that I'd die!'

I looked at her. As I did so there rose before me a vision of a man lying on a bare mattress, clad in a suit of white pyjamas, inside a glass case. It entirely prevented my seeing Violet. I had to close my eyes to shut it out.

CHAPTER III
CROSS QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS

The next day I paid a second visit to the Royal Aquarium. I was conscious that it might not be the wisest possible thing to do, but I could not keep away.

There was a larger attendance of the public at Mr. Montagu Babbacombe's side show. I attributed that to the fact that the period during which he had undertaken to continue asleep was drawing to a close. Mr. Augustus FitzHoward recognised me at once. He greeted me with an affable smile, as an old acquaintance.

'Ah, Mr. Smith! Glad to see you. I thought you'd come.'

I wondered what he meant; if he meant anything at all. For the second time the exhibition did not appear to me to be an agreeable one. Again I experienced a sense of shock when my glance first fell on the seemingly dead man, lying stark and rigid, covered only with those hideous white pyjamas, prisoned under the huge glass case. He resembled an exhibit in a medical museum; a gruesome one at that. I found it difficult to believe that he really lived. I could not detect the slightest sign of respiration. The face just looked as if it had been touched by the hand of Death. I have seen dead men in my time. If that was not death, then it was an awful imitation.

I caught myself hoping that he was dead. For it was Twickenham; there was not the slightest doubt of it. And yet the moment after doubts recurred. Twickenham had always been clean shaven; but I remembered that he used to tell me how he had to wrestle with his beard. In particular I had a faint recollection that if he left off shaving for a week he would have a beard three inches long. This man's chin was bristly; it did not add to the charm of his appearance. But presuming that his chin had remained untouched, it did not suggest anything like such a growth of hair as that of which Twickenham had spoken. Mr. Augustus FitzHoward was standing behind me. I put to him a question.

'Has Mr. Babbacombe been shaved since he fell asleep?'

'Shaved! Good gracious no, sir! He has not been touched; except by the medical gentlemen. Didn't I tell you yesterday that if he were prematurely roused it might be the death of him? Shaved-the idea!'

A sudden impulse actuated me to smash the glass case, by accident-to do something which might bring about the premature restoration of which Mr. Augustus FitzHoward spoke; the awaking which might result in death. For it was borne in on me again that it was Twickenham I saw. A wave of memory swept over me. I saw him in the habit in which he used to be; and was convinced that this was what he would have become after an interval of fifteen years. It was impossible, out of the stories, that two men could be so much alike. The madness which was in his blood when he was young was in it now. This was exactly the sort of insane freak in which he would have delighted. According to Mr. Augustus FitzHoward I had only accidentally to smash the case in front of me, and I should there and then be furnished with ample proof of Twickenham's death.

While I hesitated, the adroit Mr. FitzHoward improved the occasion by addressing to the assembled spectators, who now numbered perhaps twenty or thirty, some eloquent remarks.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, – It is a wonderful sight you see before you; life in the likeness of death. Death in life! Mr. Montagu Babbacombe looks dead; if you were able to touch him you would say that he feels dead. He is stiff as a corpse; there is no pulse, no action of the heart; his temperature is that of a man who has long since died. I am prepared to wager that if he were lying in your bed, or mine, instead of being on exhibition here in this glass case, the most eminent physicians called in for purposes of examination would unhesitatingly testify that he was dead. Even the surgeon's blade would disclose nothing suggesting life. And, for the last four weeks, to all intents and purposes he has been dead. To-morrow he will come back to us as a man out of the tomb. He will find that the world has moved; that great events have happened of which he knows nothing. It will be a kind of resurrection. To-morrow will be to him to-morrow; but since his yesterday a month will have elapsed; a month of complete oblivion. If he keeps a diary, during that month each page of it will of necessity be blank.

'Ladies and gentlemen, – To-morrow, Saturday, evening, at ten o'clock to the minute, in the presence of the manager and staff of this building, and a large representative body of eminent medical gentlemen, Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will return from out of the tomb. It will be an awe-inspiring spectacle; truly the miracle of the age. You will see, before your eyes, the dead gradually put on life, and return to the form and habits of our common humanity. The price of admission will, on this occasion, be half-a-crown. Tickets, of which only a few remain, the number being necessarily limited, may be obtained at the door on going out. If you are wise, you will avail yourselves of the opportunity to purchase while there are still any to be had. May I offer you a ticket, sir?'

Mr. Augustus FitzHoward produced a bundle of tickets from his pocket there and then. I bought one, as did others-though not in such numbers as the eloquence of his remarks perhaps merited. I may safely say that had I been actuated by nothing but a desire to be the witness of what Mr. FitzHoward called an 'awe-inspiring spectacle,' I should have been no patron. It occurred to me, as it probably did to others, that the proceedings might take a form which might quite possibly prove the reverse of agreeable. As it was, I endeavoured to evade the necessity of being present.

Waiting till the almost too eloquent orator had disposed of all the tickets which his auditors could be induced to buy, I accosted him.

'Look here, Mr. FitzHoward, can't you arrange an interview for me with Mr. Babbacombe?'

'I told you that if you're here to-morrow night I'll try to manage an introduction. So I will. I can't do more than that.'

'But I don't want to be here to-morrow night; at least, not in here. Can't I see him somewhere else?'

'Does he know you?'

'That is more than I can tell you.'

'Perhaps he won't want to see you if he knows who you are.'

There was a twinkle in the speaker's eye. I realised the truth of his words. It was extremely probable, if it was Twickenham, and he had an inkling of who I was, that he would decline the pleasure of an interview. 'You see Mr. Babbacombe won't be altogether himself; after such an experience as he has had it's not to be expected. For reasons of health, if for no other, he won't be disposed to run the risk of more physical strain than he can possibly help.'

I understood the innuendo-or thought I did. If I wished to see and speak to him, I should have to be present when he returned, in his agile associate's phrase, 'from out of the tomb.' Otherwise, before I knew it, he might vanish for another period of fifteen years.

I found, at home, that something like a heated discussion was taking place. Edith and Reggie were both with Violet. What Lady Desmond would have thought of the proceedings is more than I can say. They all began at me at once.

'Douglas, what did you mean by saying last night-'

Reggie had got so far when Violet cut him short.

'Reggie, let me speak. I'll get an answer out of him. Douglas, is the Marquis of Twickenham really alive?'

As I might have expected, Reggie had scarcely been five minutes in Violet's society before he blurted out all that I had said to him. She certainly is an insinuating young woman, and shrewd to boot. It would not take her long to perceive that there was something at the back of the young gentleman's mind. Having surmised so much, almost before he knew it, she would have ascertained what it was. Apparently Edith had come in at the very moment when explanations were taking place. So that now I had all three of them against me.

'Will you please tell me at once, Douglas, if the Marquis of Twickenham is alive?'

This she said with something very like the stamp of her foot. She can be imperious when she chooses; as, one of these days, her husband will learn.

'I tell you what I will do; if you don't mind, I'll take a cup of tea.'

'Douglas, how can you be so frivolous, when, for all we know, we may be standing on the brink of a volcano?'

'If I were standing in the very heart of a volcano-if I could get it, I should like a cup of tea.'

'I'll give you one.'

This was Edith. I took the cup she offered. Before I had a chance to sip it, Violet began at me again.

'Now, Douglas, perhaps you'll tell us.'

'Tell you what?'

'If the Marquis of Twickenham is alive.'

I turned to Reggie.

'I suppose I'm indebted to you for this. Next time I have a confidential remark to make, which I wish to have shouted in the market-place, I shall know whom to address.'

'You never told me not to tell. And I haven't shouted it in the market-place; whatever you mean by that. I only told Vi.'

'Only!'

Violet answered for him.

'It's no use your attacking Reggie; I made him tell. Situated as we are, there ought to be no secrets between us; between any of us. Do you mean to say that you consider that the knowledge that the Marquis of Twickenham is alive is knowledge which you are entitled to keep to yourself?'

'My dear Vi, there is no doubt that animation suits you; but I shouldn't on that account be always in a condition of explosiveness.'

Her cheeks flamed. Nothing annoys her so much as being told that she's excitable. Edith laid her hand upon my arm.

'Douglas, tell me; is it true?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you mean that you don't know, or that you won't say? Have you any reason to believe that he's alive; any tangible reason?'

'As I told Reggie, and as I presume he has told you, I shall be in a better position to answer that question next week.'

'But why not now? What is it you do know? Why keep us in suspense? Is it fair? Think of what it means to all of us; of what it means to me. It has come to this-that to me it is almost a question of life or death.'

I understood the allusion; it cut me to the heart.

'I tell you that I know nothing.'

'Then why did you say that last night to Reggie?'

'Because I supposed him to be possessed of a few grains of common sense.'

'But you must have had some grounds to go upon. You surely wouldn't have said a thing like that without a cause-you, of all men. Miss Sandford has never doubted that he's alive; now mother seems equally convinced; now there's you, throwing out mysterious hints. Be fair to us; make us sharers even of your suspicions.'

'Very good; I'll tell you all there is to tell, though it will only unsettle you as it unsettled me.'

'We can't be more unsettled than we are already. Anything to get out of the darkness into the light.'

'You'll still be in the darkness when you've heard all I have to say; I promise you that. I know I'm fogged enough.'

I cast about in my mind how best to tell a part of the truth without revealing all. It was very far from my desire to send them all scampering off to the Aquarium, as they undoubtedly would do if they learned everything. Edith guessed what I was after.

'Are you thinking how much you can keep back? Be fair.'

'I will be fair; what's more, I'll be open too.' Always begin like that when you intend to be as much the other kind of thing as possible. 'I'll put you in possession of all the information I have in a single sentence. The other day I saw a man who was Twickenham's living image.'

They had gathered round me. I had a dim consciousness that their faces changed colour. With their eyes they seemed to be trying to search me through and through. My statement was followed by a perceptible pause. Then Edith began to question me.

'The other day? When?'

'Yesterday.'

'Yesterday? Then you knew last evening. Mother was right.'

'I did not know. I don't know now. It seems incredible that two men could be so much alike, but, on the other hand, it seems equally incredible that, under the circumstances, it could have been he.'

'Under the circumstances? What were the circumstances?'

'That I decline to say. I must ask you to take my word for it that the circumstances under which I saw this man make it practically impossible that it could have been he.'

'Did he see you?'

'He did not.'

'Did you try to speak to him?'

'I had no chance.'

'Did you find out where he lives, or anything at all about him?'

'I did this: I found a man who knows him, and who, I have reason to believe, will bring me face to face with him at a very early date.'

'When?'

'I hope that the question of identity will be settled by Tuesday morning.'

'Hope? Is that quite the appropriate word? Because I perceive that it is Twickenham. You see, Douglas, I know you so well.'

'It is because I expected you to take that point of view that I was reluctant to speak: because I'm more than doubtful if the man I saw was Twickenham.'

'I'm not. If it had been any one but you it would have been a different case. But, you know, Douglas, your royal gift of remembering faces. You never confuse one person with another, even if it is a person you only saw for five minutes twenty years ago. If you have seen a man who was so like Twickenham that you would not like to say it was not Twickenham, it was. Reggie won't be Marquis yet.'

She leant against the mantel, looking pale. There was something in her attitude which seemed to me condemnatory. I felt ashamed. Reggie threw himself into an arm-chair.

'If it was Twickenham I shall be in a pretty tight fix.'

'We all shall. I shall have to instal Edith in those country lodgings. You will have to marry Mary Magruder. Violet will be Mrs. George Charteris.'

'I shall be nothing of the kind. I wish you wouldn't settle my future in quite such an off-handed fashion. It's not in the best of taste.'

'I certainly shall not marry Mary Magruder.'

'You might do worse.'

Vi turned on me.

'You mean that he might marry me. Douglas, you are at times so sweet. You needn't be afraid; I'll be no clog on him.'

'I'll make you marry me. You promised that you would; I imagine you are not prepared to deny it. I'll make you keep your word.'

'You'll make me! Indeed! My dear Reggie, it's news to me to learn that I'm the kind of person who can be made to do anything.'

'Good children, pray don't argue. In anticipating the very worst, we may be destined to suffer disappointment. In the first place, I am extremely doubtful if it was Twickenham; though Edith isn't. But then she didn't see him, and I did; so, of course, she knows. Even granting it was Twickenham, during fifteen years he may have altered. He may have become the most generous and delightful soul alive. In any case, he will have plenty. He can hardly refuse assistance to his only brother.'

'He won't dare to give me nothing. Especially when he knows the hole I'm in.'

'Dare!' Edith smiled. 'Twickenham dare do anything. Particularly in the way of making himself disagreeable.'

'O Lord! Don't talk like that. As Douglas says, during fifteen years he may have altered.'

'Can the Ethiopian change his skin?'

That was what I had myself been wondering.

CHAPTER IV
MR. MONTAGU BABBACOMBE AWAKES

Something of the crowd which Mr. Augustus FitzHoward foretold did assemble. It was half-past nine when I entered that part of the building in which Mr. Montagu Babbacombe was on exhibition, and already it was quite sufficiently filled. Mr. FitzHoward stood at the receipt of custom, wearing an air of triumph, and what seemed the same dirty pair of cuffs. He beamed at me as I tendered my ticket.

'All right?' I asked.

'All perfectly right, sir. In half an hour from now Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will come back from the land of the dead to the land of the living, after a thirty days' sojourn among the shadows. It may be that he will be the bearer of important news from Shadowland. Walk in, ladies and gentlemen, while there still is time.'

The major part of his remarks was addressed to folks in general. I wanted him to say something on a subject which was of interest only to myself.

'I suppose it can be arranged for me to speak to Mr. Babbacombe after the close of his entertainment.'

'Entertainment, sir! I would have you know that this is not an entertainment; a mere commonplace show. It's a modern miracle; the miracle of the age-as those who witness it will with one voice proclaim. Admission, half-a-crown!' This was said at the top of his voice. A postscript was uttered in milder tones. 'I can't make any promise. I expect it'll be pretty lively after ten, and perhaps Mr. Babbacombe mayn't feel up to much. But if you'll keep yourself handy, if I can manage an introduction I will. The rest you must manage yourself.'

'Very good. You understand that I must see him alone.'

'Alone? I didn't understand that.'

'I must see him alone. If you arrange for me to do that it will be a five-pound note in your pocket.

'Sure?'

'Certain.'

'Then you hang about as the people are going, and I'll pass you accidental-like into his dressing-room. As you go in you give me the fiver.'

'I will.'

'No kid?'

'None whatever. You do as you say and I will give you a five-pound note as certainly as I gave you a sovereign on Thursday.'

'You place yourself where I can keep an eye on you, and I'll earn that fiver.' He raised his voice to trumpet tones. 'Ladies and gentlemen. The greatest feat of modern times is now drawing to a close. The critical moment is at hand. In less than half an hour the boasted miracles of the Indian fakirs will be more than paralleled. Out of the silence Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will come; back from the misty plains. After being dead for thirty days he will resume existence. Already the dews of life are forming on his brow. The few remaining tickets admitting to this wonderful spectacle only two-and-sixpence each.'

I did not know what Mr. FitzHoward meant by 'the dews of life,' but so far as I could see, no change whatever had taken place in the appearance of the sleeping man. He retained the same rigidity of attitude, and bore, to the full, the same uncomfortable resemblance to a corpse.

We were a curious crowd. I fancy that, before the proceedings closed, there were several there who rather wished that they had stayed away. I noticed about the people an odd air of repression; a tendency to speak in whispers; or not to speak at all. A good many seemed doubtful whether they were not standing in the actual presence of Death. I confess to some feeling of the kind myself. The man in the white pyjamas, lying on the mattress under the glass case, exercised a not altogether agreeable fascination over all of us. We had to look at him, whether we would or would not. Two young men by me were betting in undertones as to whether he was or was not dead. It seemed to me a fantastically droll idea that the subject of their wager was quite possibly Leonard, Marquis of Twickenham.

I remembered how Leonard had once told me of some fellow or other he had seen somewhere in Cashmere. I expect Mr. FitzHoward's allusion to Indian fakirs had recalled the conversation to my mind. This fellow had pretended to go to sleep, and had then been put in a hole in the ground, and covered with earth-regularly buried, in fact. Some time afterwards-I forget how long-he had been dug up again, and his friends had tried to waken him up. They tried all sorts of things; beat him with sticks, even cut him with knives. In vain. He would not be roused. So they concluded he was dead. They placed the body in the hut, or house, or whatever it was, in which Leonard was staying; in the very apartment, in fact, in which he slept. In the middle of the night Leonard woke up and saw the dead man coming to life. He stole towards Leonard's bed with a knife in his hand. Leonard lay perfectly still. In another second or two he would have himself been dead; and this time really. But, just as the fellow was leaning over, in the very act of striking, Leonard shot him with a revolver. The man fell on to him a corpse. About his being a corpse there was, on this occasion, no shadow of doubt whatever.

Twickenham's inference was that the whole thing, sleeping, burying, and digging up again, had been a trick. I wondered if the show at which we were assisting was a trick. One never knows. Though it was difficult to see where the deceit came in. There was the man; there he was two days ago. That he appeared then as he appeared now I, for one, was prepared to testify. The only question was-was he released each night, after the departure of the public, to enjoy a supper, say, of pork and beans, and a hand of cards with Mr. FitzHoward? It seemed hardly likely that the management would be a party to so egregious a swindle on the British public. It would mean ruin if discovered. Since large interests were at stake, the game would surely not be worth the candle. And without active managerial participation the thing could not be done.

Suppose, on the other hand, the man was dead, as he seemed-that he had died to make an Aquarium side show? It occurred to me that, both legally and morally, we spectators would be in rather an uncomfortable position.

Possibly it was my recollection of Twickenham's story which served to emphasise, to my thinking, the sleeper's resemblance to its narrator. As I looked I became more and more convinced that it was he I saw. Indeed, all doubt was at an end. I felt that he had only to open his eyes, and speak, for me to realise that the thing had been certain from the first. That being the case, only one of two things could save us all from ruin.

The one was death. If he was what he looked, there, at hand, was the proof for which we had been searching. Reggie was Marquis. The other was-. To be frank, it is difficult to put into words in what the other chance of salvation lay. I deemed it just within the range of possibility that in that interview which I was to have with him, and in those other interviews which I would take care should follow, I might succeed in putting the screw on him to such an extent that-well, that, comparatively speaking, all would be right. At the same time I clearly realised that my chance of doing this was something of a minus quantity; and that, for us, it would be best that he should be what he seemed, even though the whole body of spectators might have to suffer.

At a quarter to ten the place was uncomfortably full. There must have been a good harvest of half-crowns for some one. At ten minutes to, several persons appeared who entered a roped-in space immediately surrounding the glass case. I concluded that they were 'the manager and staff of the building and a large representative body of eminent medical gentlemen.' At five minutes to, Mr. FitzHoward joined them, having probably concluded that it would be difficult, if not dangerous, to attempt to pack any more people into the place, even if more could be induced to enter.

He lost no time, now that he had arrived, but instantly commenced to treat us to examples of his eloquence.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, – In less than another five minutes Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will crown his miraculous feat. It only remains for me, during the short time left at my disposal, to prove to you its bona-fideness; that there has been no deception here. Allow me to introduce you to the manager of the building.'

He singled out for our inspection a smiling, yet dignified, gentleman in evening dress; who was, apparently, a very different sort of individual to himself. By way of acknowledging the introduction this gentleman removed his hat.

'Mr. Manager, you hold in your possession the key of this glass case?'

'I do.'

'It was locked in your presence thirty days ago?'

'It was.'

'Since then the key has remained in your possession?'

'It has.'

'To the best of your knowledge and belief no other key to the case is in existence?'

'That is so.'

'The case has not been opened by your orders, or to your knowledge?'

'It has not.'

'You have examined it every day to see that it has not been tampered with?'

'Several times a day.'

'It has been watched day and night by some person or persons appointed by you, in whose trustworthiness you have faith?'

'It has.'

'Therefore, in your opinion, since Mr. Montagu Babbacombe, thirty days ago, fell asleep, and was locked in this case in your presence, no one has had access to him of any sort or kind?'

'That is my opinion.'

'I have now to ask you to hand me the key of the case.'

It was handed over. Mr. FitzHoward held it up for us to see.

'There are four locks to the case, one at each side. This key opens them all. The locks are of very peculiar construction; as, also, is the key. I will now proceed to unlock the case.'

He did unlock it. Four men came forward, lifted the case-it seemed as much as they could do-and, with considerable difficulty, because of the crowd, bore it from the room.

Mr. Montagu Babbacombe remained uncovered.

It was then ten. The fact was announced by a clock in the building; and Mr. FitzHoward stood with his watch in his hand.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will now awake.'

The doctors, if they were doctors, pressed forward. We all craned our necks.

It seemed inconceivable that after a slumber of thirty days-and one so very much like death-the man could wake to an appointed minute. But he did. Scarcely had Mr. FitzHoward ceased to speak than, with the most natural air in the world, raising his hand, he passed it over his face, as one is sometimes apt to do when awaking. He opened his eyes. He sat up.

To be greeted by a storm of cheers. Which, however, presently died away, as it was realised that there was that in his appearance which was hardly in harmony with such a demonstration. He gazed about him with, on his pallid features, a look of dazed inquiry; as if he wondered where he was. Mr. FitzHoward spoke to him.

'I'm glad to see you, Mr. Babbacombe. I hope you're comfortable, sir. Here is Mr. Manager.'

The manager extended his hand.

'Feeling rested after your sound sleep?'

Mr. Babbacombe apparently did not notice the held-out hand. He answered in a curious monotone, still about him that air of vacancy. The sound of his voice set me all of a twitter.