"Don't y' know y're at your destination?" whispered the man. "This is Mr. John Grant's. This is the place ye're looking for."
A melancholy room! The calico ceiling drooped, the window and front door were hermetically sealed, an ornate glass lamp shone in murky, lonely splendour upon a wool mat on a ricketty round table. Six chairs stood against the papered walls. Nothing more.
Tom wanted to beat it back to the kitchen, through which they had passed to get to this sarcophagus, and where a fire was burning and a woman was busy. But the man was tapping at another door, and listening anxiously before entering.
He went into the dark room beyond, where a candle shone feebly, and they heard him say:
"Your nephew's come, Mr. Grant, and brought a doctor and another gentleman, the Lord be praised."
"The Lord don't need to be praised on my behalf, Amos," came a querulous voice. "And I ain't got no nephew, if I did send him a letter. I've got nobody. And I want no doctor, because I died when I left my mother's husband's house."
"They're in the parlour."
"Tell 'em to walk up."
The man appeared in the doorway. Rackett walked up, Jack followed, and Tom hung nervously and disgustedly in the rear.
"Here they are! Here's the gentry," said Amos.