“Thank you,” I said, and having secured the spool of thread, left the store. But I could feel him staring after me, and I had an uncomfortable consciousness that I had provided him with a choice tid-bit of gossip.
However, it was too late to help it, now; so I hurried back up the road and soon came to the gateway guarded by the two white posts. I turned resolutely in between them, and walked on along the drive, which curved abruptly to the right, and was soon quite screened from the highway. Then I saw the house—a modest little gray cottage, with closed shutters. But for what I had been told about them, I should have concluded that Mr. Tunstall was away from home. I went on to the door and knocked, noticing, as I did so, how it was screened by a row of broad-branched arbour vitæ bushes. Evidently Mr. Tunstall was fond of privacy—and for an instant I regretted my haste in coming alone to pay him this visit.
As I was trying to decide whether, after all, I would not better make my escape before it was too late, I heard a slight sound, and had a sense of being scrutinized through the curtain which covered the lights at the side of the door. An instant later, the door opened noiselessly, and I saw Silas Tunstall standing there looking down at me.
“Why, it’s Miss Truman!” he cried, in affected surprise. “Won’t you come in, miss?”
Without answering, and summoning all the bravery I possessed, I stepped across the threshold and into the hall beyond. The door was at once closed, and I found myself in semi-darkness.
“This way,” said Mr. Tunstall’s voice, and his hand on my arm guided me to the right. Then my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and I saw that I was in the front room—a room rather larger than one would have expected from the tiny exterior of the house, and furnished in a most impressive manner, which the semi-darkness appreciably increased. Curtains of some thin stuff which stirred in every breath of air hung against the walls, and I fancied that a draft was introduced from somewhere just for the purpose of keeping them in motion. There was a little table near the centre of the room, upon which were various queer-looking instruments. A book-case, filled with big volumes, stood in one corner. By the table were two chairs. There was no other furniture. I noticed that the curtains extended entirely around the room, and that when the door was closed, there was no sign of any aperture. I judged that the two front windows had been padded with some black cloth, to keep any glimmer of light from penetrating to the interior, and I reflected that it would be equally effective in preventing any glimmer from within being seen outside. The only light in the room proceeded from two candles which flickered on the mantel over the fireplace, and which seemed to burn with a queer perfume. At least, I could think of no other place from which the perfume could come. Indeed, some people might not have called it a perfume at all. It reminded me, somehow, of the odour of a freshly-printed newspaper—the odour which, I suppose, comes from the ink.
Of course, I didn’t see all this at once, but gradually during my visit.
“Set down,” said Mr. Tunstall, and motioned me to one of the chairs, while he himself took the other. “What kin I do fer you?”
I determined to hazard a bold stroke at once.
“Mr. Tunstall,” I said, “I hope you won’t keep up that drawl with me. It really isn’t worth while. And I think your natural tone so much pleasanter.”