“I'm not sure that I can make it clear,” she said, smiling dubiously, “but if you will use your imaginations and try to fill in the gaps in what I say you may get a fair idea of the place I have come from, and where Harry is.”
We leaned forward, intensely alert. I shall never forget the pitiful eagerness in poor Charlotte's face. It meant more to her, perhaps, than to anyone else.
At the precise instant I heard a sound, off in the breakfast room. It seemed to be a subdued knocking, or rather a pounding at the door.
Frowning at the interruption, I stepped through the dining-room into the breakfast room, where the sounds came from. And I was not a little puzzled to note that the door to the basement was receiving the blows.
Now I had been the last to visit the basement and had locked the door—from force of habit, I suppose—leaving the key in the lock. It was still there. And there is but one way to enter that basement: through this one door, and no other.
“Who is it?” I called out peremptorily. No answer; only a repetition of the pounds.
“What do you want?”—louder.
“Open this door, quick!” cane a muffled reply.
The voice was unrecognisable. I stood and thought quickly; then shouted:
“Wait a minute, until I get a key!”