What a fat, smug, oily face the man had, and surely there was something decidedly shifty in his eye.
“Mr. Ackroyd particularly does not want to be disturbed,” I said coldly. “He told me to tell you so.”
“Quite so, sir. I—I fancied I heard the bell ring.”
This was such a palpable untruth that I did not trouble to reply. Preceding me to the hall, Parker helped me on with my overcoat, and I stepped out into the night. The moon was overcast and everything seemed very dark and still. The village church clock chimed nine o’clock as I passed through the lodge gates. I turned to the left towards the village, and almost cannoned into a man coming in the opposite direction.
“This the way to Fernly Park, mister?” asked the stranger in a hoarse voice.
I looked at him. He was wearing a hat pulled down over his eyes, and his coat collar turned up. I could see little or nothing of his face, but he seemed a young fellow. The voice was rough and uneducated.
“These are the lodge gates here,” I said.
“Thank you, mister.” He paused, and then added, quite unnecessarily, “I’m a stranger in these parts, you see.”
He went on, passing through the gates as I turned to look after him.
The odd thing was that his voice reminded me of some one’s voice that I knew, but whose it was I could not think.