"Gentlemen," said Arnold, again, very quietly, very precisely, "why not go in?"
All this time my uncle, as was his way except in those rare moments when he made a pitiful show of regaining his old peremptory manner, had been standing by in silence, looking from one to another of our company. But now he hesitantly spoke up.
"He has not been here for some time," he said.
Gleazen turned with a scornful grunt. "Much you know whether he has or not," he retorted.
"See!" My uncle pointed at the door. "Vines have grown across the top of it."
Gleazen softly swore, and Matterson said, "For once, Neil, he's right."
Why we had not noticed it before, I cannot say; probably we were too much excited. But we all saw it now, and Gleazen, staring at the dark shadow of the leaves on the door, stepped back a pace.
"By Heaven," he whispered, "I don't like to go in."
"Gentlemen," said Arnold, speaking for the third time, ever quietly and precisely, "I am not afraid to go in."
When he boldly went up to the house ahead of us, we, ashamed to hang back, reluctantly followed.