He was bowed out, and the rest of the afternoon he spent over business matters. It was not till nearly six o’clock that, set free, he bethought himself of his purposed exploration and of his definite promise to Mrs Baxter, and started a second time for the Vauxhall Bridge Road.
The fog had so deepened during the interval that walking proved a difficulty and in some ways a danger. However, Gilead was naturally well acquainted with the locality, and the perils of no more than a single crossing were there to beset him. He reached the house at last after a calculated progress, and, mounting the shallow flight of steps to the door, paused a moment before fitting in the latchkey.
He was feeling suddenly odd, and disenchanted with his quest, conscious of a strong reluctance to leave even that turbid street—with its running links, and flares of sudden omnibuses, and boom of life however obscured—and enter into the darkness and mysticism of the empty house. He had ascertained that its owner desired to let it furnished during the period of his temporary absence abroad; and what then? He himself did not want to take it; neither was it possible for him in this murk and at this time of the evening to conduct any investigation worth the name.
“What an ass I am,” he thought. “Haven’t I had enough of empty houses?”
And at that, and the flush of sudden shame the memory evoked, he ran the key resolutely in, opened the door, entered, and clicked to the latch behind him.
Tingling in every vein, as he stood there in the numb, half paralyzing darkness, he felt for his electric torch and switched on the little friendly spark. It’s tiny light only seemed to make the gloom more terrific. He advanced a step or two—and a host of shadows seemed to scatter and fly noiselessly before him. They sped up the stairs, they disappeared round open doors; things ticked and scuttled, stealing into corners and squatting to whisper. Looking over his shoulder in a panic, he saw a white face watching him, and almost dropped the torch in the start he gave.
The rumble of a passing omnibus came like a rally to his nerves. He turned resolutely, though his hands were wet—and saw that the face was the pictured face of an old gentleman hanging upon the wall.
Again he turned, reassured—and felt that the painted eyes were following him. He stopped.
“It’s no good,” he thought; “and worse than useless. I’ll just make a cursory examination and come again to-morrow.”
Stepping on tiptoe, as though fearful of attracting secret attentions, he turned from the hall into the first of the two rooms that opened from it to his right, and flashed his little torch to and fro. So far as he could gather, it was merely like the hall, commonplace. From the usual oil-cloth, and the usual marbled paper, he had passed to the usual lace curtains, cheap plush chairs, rickety tripod tables, antimacassars, and an ebony over-mantel painted with birds and adorned with tawdry glass vases from the sixpenny-halfpenny shop. Its unimaginative philistinism was so utter as to convey a certain comfort; no ghost of the past could possibly walk in such an atmosphere of raw newness. Gilead breathed out a little easing sigh, and turned to go.