“Like this?” a little laughing echo threw back—and silence closed upon him again.
He felt the thrill of sweat prickle down his neck; but, stubbornly pushing forward, of a sudden he saw the drive swerve into open space—a twinkle of light gleamed upon him—and there, grown out of the dark before his eyes; was a long low house of crinkled white, with either end fashioned into a protruding gable.
Too weary and out of humour with the situation to note anything but that here presumably his quest ended, he drew up at a central porch with a peaked roof, and seeing a dark iron-studded door before him, rained a shower of blows on it with the butt of his riding-whip.
A step hurried along the passage within—there was the click of a latch, and the figure of a tall man, holding a candle over its head, appeared in the opening.
As the two stood thus a moment, a white shape came out of the darkness, passed horse and traveller, and, with a tiny laugh, fled into the house and vanished.
CHAPTER VI.
Any man but a Bayard is apt to lose the accent of courtesy in the rebound from a sudden fright.
Mr. Tuke fell back a pace, breathing quickly. Then he advanced in quick fury, so that the man in the doorway shrunk before him.
“Are you Whimple?” he demanded in a harsh voice, with a slight tremor in it.
“At your good service, sir.”