Varney smiled into the great darkness. "Well, when I first heard your
voice--ha, ha!--I made up my mind that you could not possibly be less
than fifty-two."

He was rewarded with a faint laugh: this time there could be no doubt of
it.

"You remember that mythological tunnel where everybody went in old and
came out young. This conversation has been like that. Since we have
talked," said Varney, "I have knocked thirty years off your age. But
much remains to be told--and that is the game. Are you dark?"

"Are you punning?"

"This is no punning matter," he said; and began his third exploration of
himself for a match. And above them the water continued to thud upon the
roof like a torrent broken out of a dam.

"This is _too_ bad!" breathed the lady impatiently, and plainly she was
not speaking to Varney. "I believe it's coming down harder and harder
every minute!"

"Yes," he answered cheerfully, "the good old rain is at it in earnest.
We're probably fixed for hours and hours. I might argue, you know," he
added, "that I have a right to know these things. The box of matches I
just gave away like a madman would have told me, and no questions asked.
Matches and lamps you have none, but such as you have--"

"Could you not talk of something else, please?"