"Isn't the box even
going to open?"
It did not open. There was simply silence all at once, and that was all. I
sat there in expectation for some moments longer. But I sat for nothing. I
rose. I took the box in my hand. I shook it.
"This puzzle _is_ a puzzle." I held the box first to one ear, then to the
other. I gave it several sharp raps with my knuckles. There was not an
answering sound, not even the sort of reverberation which Pugh and I had
noticed at first. It seemed hollower than ever. It was as though the soul
of the box was dead. "I suppose if I put you down, and extinguish the gas
and return to bed, in about half an hour or so, just as I am dropping off
to sleep, the performance will be recommenced. Perhaps the third time will
be lucky."
But I was mistaken--there was no third time. When I returned to bed that
time I returned to sleep, and I was allowed to sleep; there was no
continuation of the performance, at least so far as I know. For no sooner
was I once more between the sheets than I was seized with an irresistible
drowsiness, a drowsiness which so mastered me that I--I imagine it must
have been instantly--sank into slumber which lasted till long after day
had dawned. Whether or not any more mysterious sounds issued from the
bowels of Pugh's puzzle is more than I can tell. If they did, they did not
succeed in rousing me.
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