His eyes gazed out glassily from under his damp brow. He looked
like a man who was seeing some ghastly sight. The audience sympathised
with him. They felt like that, too.
In all human plans there is ever some slight hitch, some little
miscalculation which just makes all the difference. A moment's thought
should have told Eustace Hignett that a half-smoked cigar was one of
the essential properties to any imitation of the eminent Mr. Tinney:
but he had completely overlooked the fact. The cigar came as an
absolute surprise to him and it could not have affected him more
powerfully if it had been a voice from the tomb. He stared at it
pallidly, like Macbeth at the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, lively
young cigar, and its curling smoke played lightly about his nostrils.
His jaw fell. His eyes protruded. He looked for a long moment like one
of those deep-sea fishes concerning which the recent lecturer had
spoken so searchingly. Then with the cry of a stricken animal, he
bounded from his seat and fled for the deck.
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