“Yes. That’s something of a bit of old work,” he pronounced admiringly. “Why there are connoisseurs who would give tall prices for that bit of wood, I can tell you, Mr Mervyn.”
“Then I wish to the devil ‘that bit of wood’ belonged to me,” returned Mervyn, with something of a sour grin. “They could have it and welcome. One door’s as good as another to me, as long as it shuts tight and keeps draughts out. I’d much rather have the ‘tall prices.’ Will you take a whisky and soda?”
“No thanks. I rarely touch spirits in the daytime. A ‘nightcap’ before turning in is a very good thing. But—you’re very kind.”
He was feeling the graining of the door with his finger nails, then he turned the handle. This he held admiringly.
“Why, what a splendid piece of antique. This handle is worth a lot. And, what’s on the other side?”
“Only a black hole of a cellar, where I don’t keep anything. It’s too damp, for one thing. Like to see it?”
“Immensely.”
“Right. I’ll get a bit of candle and the key.”
Having done both, Mervyn opened the door.
“Mind the steps,” he said, holding the candle over the head of the other and still contriving that he should be in advance. “There are ten of them.”