CHAPTER THIRTEENI
“What’s the time?” asked Mr. Rameses some time later, and Macdonald found that his wrist-watch was still intact.
“Half-past twelve—to-morrow in other words,” he replied.
“‘To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death’.”
Amazingly, Macdonald thought that he had never heard those lines more impressively spoken—or more beautifully spoken, either. Drenched with water from the hoses, filthy, torn, Mr. Rameses stood in a fire-drenched room amid the reek of soaked charred furniture, his deep voice declaiming immortal lines with never a quiver in the superb bass. He turned to the window, from which glass and black-out had long since gone
