He tapped on the door. Almost with the sound, the streak of light vanished from the blind, and left all in darkness.
No response followed. They waited a breathless minute.
“Queer!” muttered the detective. “The young woman can’t have arrived before us, I suppose?”
“Not if I’m right in my calculations,” said Gilead. “Try again.”
The officer knocked a second time, and louder. “It’s all right,” he whispered in a moment. “I hear steps. He’s coming.”
But still the door was not opened—only some indefinable consciousness of a presence standing silent behind it was conveyed to them.
The detective rapped again.
Then suddenly, so close that it made Gilead start, a voice spoke through the keyhole—an odd strained little voice, with a hiccup in it.
“Who’s there? What d’you want?”
Gilead, glancing at the detective, put his finger to his lips and bent to respond: