Here he started to jump over the rail, instead of going through the
proper opening, while Padre Camorra broke out into protests, fearing
that Ben-Zayb might be right.

"And why not, sir?" rejoined the American. "But don't break anything,
will you?"

The journalist was already on the platform. "You will allow me,
then?" he asked, and without waiting for the permission, fearing that
it might not be granted, raised the cloth to look for the mirrors
that he expected should be between the legs of the table. Ben-Zayb
uttered an exclamation and stepped back, again placed both hands under
the table and waved them about; he encountered only empty space. The
table had three thin iron legs, sunk into the floor.

The journalist looked all about as though seeking something.

"Where are the mirrors?" asked Padre Camorra.

Ben-Zayb looked and looked, felt the table with his fingers, raised
the cloth again, and rubbed his hand over his forehead from time to
time, as if trying to remember something.

"Have you lost anything?" inquired Mr. Leeds.

"The mirrors, Mister, where are the mirrors?"

"I don't know where yours are--mine are at the hotel. Do you want to
look at yourself? You're somewhat pale and excited."