For the time being there was no rain to greet me as I stepped outside, but the wind still blew boisterously from the east, and the sky was all drawn and wrapt in a doleful swaddle of cloud. Sternly and without hesitation I made my way to the house of Dr. Crackenthorpe. An anaemic, cross-looking servant girl was polishing what remained of the handle of the front door with a tattered doeskin glove.
“Is the doctor inside?” I said to her.
She left the glove sticking on the handle like a frouzy knocker, and stood upright looking down upon me.
“What do you want with him?” she said.
“I wish to see him on private business.”
“He’s at his breakfast. He won’t thank you for troubling him now.”
“I don’t want him to thank me. I wish to see him, that’s all.”
“Well, then, you can’t—and that’s all.”
I pushed past her and walked into the hall and she followed me clamoring.
The ugly voice I knew well called from a back room I had not yet been into: “What’s that?”