“Short explanations suit me best,” I said. “Immured in a wall. Is not that enough?”
“Quite, for me,” said he, “since you are here. But whose wall, now?”
I shook my head.
“Why, in Ranger Portlock’s cottage,” said he, “buried, out of all whooping, in the forest. Would you like to be introduced to your host?”
“Yes, if you please,” I said. “Will you call him in?”
He laughed.
“Mahomet will have to go to the mountain. You will understand why, when you see it. Well, for this cottage. Did you mark its position in the dark? Poor little bewildered brain—poor little brain! Harkee!” (He was fondly touching and smoothing the hair on my temples.) “I loved this Diana as a little girl. What a phenomenal brother, to be sure! This cottage you are in, child—did you not observe?—lies snuggled in the shoulder of the hill, warm as a baby in its mother’s arm—as warm and as safe too. Its back wall here” (he turned and tapped the plaster) “is just a windowless buttress, built strong against any chance falling of the soil beyond. This” (he pointed to the inner wall) “terminates the kitchen, and not the house itself, as a body entering the building is meant to suppose. ’Tis a blind, as one might call it, and not discernible from the outside to any but a conjurer.”
“And there?” I said, pointing to the closed door at the end.
“That, madam,” said he, with some momentary return to dryness, “is Bluebeard’s Chamber, if you please, and not at present in the articles of discussion.”
I was surprised—a little startled, perhaps—but said no more; and he went on—