Brant advanced a step, his head thrust forward. “We’re friends of Robinson,” he said, steadily forcing the old woman back into the dark little hall. “He’s waiting for us.”
“’Ere, ’alf a mo,” the old woman said, trying to block Brant’s progress. “I didn’t tell yer to come in, did I? You come back termorrer.”
Brant kept moving forward, staring down at the old woman, flustering her. “It’s all right,” he said. “He’s expecting us. Don’t worry. We’ll go up.”
George had followed Brant into the hall, and was aware that rain from his hat and coat was making puddles on the coconut matting that covered the floor.
Brant suddenly side-stepped the old woman and began to mount the stairs. She stood watching him, uneasy, unsure of herself. She stared at George, who hunched his great shoulders, unconsciously making himself look sinister and frightening. He went up the stairs behind Brant.
“The old cow,” Brant said, under his breath. “Who does she think she is?”
He walked along the short passage to a door under which they could see a light burning. He paused outside the door and put his ear against the panel. He stood there listening, intent, menacing, and George, standing a few feet behind him, suddenly saw him in an unexpected and frightening light. It was as if he could see evil and danger emanating from him like a thought-form. He was aware, too, that the old woman had come halfway up the stairs and was watching Brant with fear and curiosity.
Brant glanced over his shoulder at George, made a grimace, and jerked his head towards the door. George had no idea what he intended to convey. He had no time to ask, for Brant, turning the handle of the door, pushed it open and walked into the room.
Not wanting to be left in the dimly lit passage under the disconcerting gaze of the old woman, George took a few hesitating steps forward, which brought him to the door.
Brant was standing just inside the doorway, looking across the large room at Robinson. George peered past Brant, a sheepish, apologetic expression on his face.