Martin banged the heavy knocker on the front door. There was no reply. He banged and banged until the noise, in his head, grew louder than the band and the loud-speakers and the merry-go-round. He thought he heard some sound from an oriel window, projecting out over the front door, and he stepped back. But a voice spoke from behind the front door.
"Is that Mr. Martin Drake?"
"Yes!"
With a rattle of bolts and the click of a key, the heavy door opened under its low-pointed stone arch. Inside stood an elderly man in butler's canonicals, very shabby and clearly Dawson, with whom he had held that conversation about the five hundred pound.
He was in a dim, polished Tudor hall, low of ceiling and so much in twilight because all windows had been closed, all curtains drawn, against the noise.
"Martin!" said Jenny's voice.
A broad, low staircase, with carved balustrades, ascended along the left-hand wall. A heavy hinged panel at the side of the stairs stood more than part way open, and Jenny's face peered out at him.
"Martin," she said without preamble, "Grandmother's on the telephone."
Chapter 18
Martin strode over, hearing Dawson shut and lock the door behind him. Jenny was now regarding his forehead with far more consternation and concern than seemed possible if he had suffered serious injury.