He could
speak, too, as well as anybody. He turned to a long Moorish musket
inlaid with gems and mother-of-pearl, and began to describe it. He was
quite fluent and sensible, although his voice sounded remote in his own
ears. He was satisfied. He had his nerves under control. He would go
through the next hour without anyone suspecting the madness that was in
his mind. He was absolutely sober and self-collected. He walked along a
seam of the matting that ran the whole length of the gallery, and did
not deviate from it one hair's breadth. Now he was ready. Perfectly
prepared to deliver his lecture. He sat down and picked up the
newspaper, and the print was clear. "The weather still continues to be
fine over the British Islands. The anti-cyclone has not yet passed away
from the Bay of Biscay...." He read the jargon through to the end. But
it seemed as if it were not he who was reading, but someone else--a
quiet, placid gentleman, deeply versed in the harmless science of
meteorology. Where his real self was he did not know, so he toyed with
the illusion.
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