He paused outside the gate and looked up and down the lane, screwing up his courage to go on.
Suppose the police were waiting for him? Suppose this silent, overgrown garden concealed a trap?
He struggled with his fears. He had to get the whip. It was worth any risk. He would he all right if he kept his head and showed them his book specimens. He would say that he had wanted a day in the country and was canvassing to make his expenses. That was a straightforward story. They would believe him. It wasn’t as if he looked like a murderer.
He drew a deep breath and pushed open the gate. It squeaked sharply, setting his teeth on edge. Again he had a powerful urge to turn back, but he forced himself on.
Cautiously, he moved up the overgrown path. In the shelter of the trees and high hedges, the garden was silent and close. The scent of clover and wallflowers was heavy in the still air.
He reached the bungalow and rapped on the door. Sweat ran down his face as he stood in the hot, sheltered porch, listening, his nerves slowly tightening
And as he stood there, a thought crept into his mind that drove the blood from his heart. Suppose Crispin answered the door? Suppose he got up from the floor and opened the door and stood before George with blood on his dressing-gown?
George hacked away, his mouth open in an idiotic grimace of terror.
He couldn’t even run away. He stood paralyzed, waiting. Nothing happened.
He fought down the panic that had seized him, conquered it and returned to the door. He rapped again.