Diaz, grumbling inarticulately, pulled the bell of the great door of the house. But he had to ring several times before finally the door opened; and each second was a year for me, waiting there with him in the street. And when the door opened he was leaning against it, and so pitched forward into the gloom of the archway. A laugh—the loud, unrestrained laugh of the courtesan—came from across the street.
The archway was as black as night.
‘Shut the door, will you?’ I heard Diaz’ voice. ‘I can’t see it. Where are you?’
But I was not going to shut the door.
‘Have you got a servant here?’ I asked him.
‘She comes in the mornings,’ he replied.
‘Then there is no one in your flat?’
‘Not a shoul,’ said Diaz. ‘Needn’t be ‘fraid.’
I’m not afraid,’ I said. ‘But I wanted to know. Which floor is it?’
‘Third. I’ll light a match.’