The room had been growing dark and drowsy; the afternoon sun sent one heavy shaft of powdered gold across it, which fell with an intangible solemnity upon the empty seat of Mary Gray, for the younger women had left the court before the more recent of the investigations.  Mrs. Duke was still asleep, and Innocent Smith, looking like a large hunchback in the twilight, was bending closer and closer to his paper toys.  But the five men really engaged in the controversy, and concerned not to convince the tribunal but to convince each other, still sat round the table like the Committee of Public Safety.

Suddenly Moses Gould banged one big scientific book on top of another, cocked his little legs up against the table, tipped his chair backwards so far as to be in direct danger of falling over, emitted a startling and prolonged whistle like a steam engine, and asserted that it was all his eye.

When asked by Moon what was all his eye, he banged down behind the books again and answered with considerable excitement, throwing his papers about.  “All those fairy-tales you’ve been reading out,” he said.  “Oh! don’t talk to me!  I ain’t littery and that, but I know fairy-tales when I hear ’em.  I got a bit stumped in some of the philosophical bits and felt inclined to go out for a B. and S. But we’re living in West ’Ampstead and not in ’Ell; and the long and the short of it is that some things ’appen and some things don’t ’appen.  Those are the things that don’t ’appen.”

“I thought,” said Moon gravely, “that we quite clearly explained—­”

“Oh yes, old chap, you quite clearly explained,” assented Mr. Gould with extraordinary volubility.  “You’d explain an elephant off the doorstep, you would.  I ain’t a clever chap like you; but I ain’t a born natural, Michael Moon, and when there’s an elephant on my doorstep I don’t listen to no explanations. `It’s got a trunk,’ I says.—­`My trunk,’ you says:  `I’m fond of travellin’, and a change does me good.’—­`But the blasted thing’s got tusks,’ I says.—­`Don’t look a gift ’orse in the mouth,’ you says, `but thank the goodness and the graice that on your birth ’as smiled.’—­`But it’s nearly as big as the ‘ouse,’ I says.—­`That’s the bloomin’ perspective,’ you says, `and the sacred magic of distance.’—­`Why, the elephant’s trumpetin’ like the Day of Judgement,’ I says.—­`That’s your own conscience a-talking to you, Moses Gould,’ you says in a grive and tender voice.  Well, I ’ave got a conscience as much as you.  I don’t believe most of the things they tell you in church on Sundays; and I don’t believe these ’ere things any more because you goes on about ’em as if you was in church.  I believe an elephant’s a great big ugly dingerous beast—­ and I believe Smith’s another.”

“Do you mean to say,” asked Inglewood, “that you still doubt the evidence of exculpation we have brought forward?”

“Yes, I do still doubt it,” said Gould warmly.  “It’s all a bit too far-fetched, and some of it a bit too far off.  ’Ow can we test all those tales?  ’Ow can we drop in and buy the `Pink ‘Un’ at the railway station at Kosky Wosky or whatever it was?  ’Ow can we go and do a gargle at the saloon-bar on top of the Sierra Mountains?  But anybody can go and see Bunting’s boarding-house at Worthing.”