Varney laughed. "Certainly, if I must. Only I've been rather generous
about this, I think, showing you my hand and giving you the chance to
laugh at me. You see, for all I know you may be fifty-two, after all. Or
even sixty-two--Oh, glory! Hallelujah!"

"What on earth is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing! Nothing at all! Just I have found a match. That's all!"

"A _match_! Splendid!" she cried, and her voice suddenly seemed to come
from a higher point in the darkness, as though she had risen. "Just one!
Oh, we--you must be extremely careful with it."

"The trouble is," he said with exaggerated dejection, "it's pretty wet.
I don't know whether it will strike or not."

"You must _make_ it strike. Oh, it will be--unpardonable--if you don't
make it strike!"

"Then I'll throw my soul into the work. I'll concentrate my whole
will-power upon it. On the back of this chair here--shall I?"

"All right. I'll concentrate too. Are--you ready?"

"Ready it is," said Varney.

Gently he drew the match across the rough wood of the chair-back, his
ear all eager expectancy--and nothing happened. Thrice he did this
fruitless thing, and something told him that a large section of the