By the time the strangers had departed and her host was excusing his wife, who was indisposed, Mrs. Cheviot felt able and wishful to proceed on her way.
“If you would be so kind as to telephone for a car. The nearest garage, you know. I’d ring up my husband, but it’s no good frightening him for nothing, and he would be certain to think, whatever I said, that I was more or less hurt.”
“You’re sure you mean this?” said her host, a giant of about fifty with a handsome but choleric manner and the physique of a smith. “Because, if you feel the least shaky—and I’m very sure I should—I’ll be happy to put you up and your husband too.”
“You’re most awfully good,” said Blanche, “but——”
“Nonsense, my dear lady, nonsense. When a crime is committed at my very door, the least I can do is to offer the victim such shelter as she cares to accept. I say ‘a crime.’ If I had my way, madam, that swine should be drawn and quartered. But for the mercy of God you would be in the mortuary instead of in that chair conversing with me. Why? Because a blackguard in charge of a waggon deliberately chooses to convert it into an engine of destruction so that he can be done with the labour for which he is paid twenty minutes before his just time.” He broke off to stamp violently about the floor. Presently he swallowed his wrath and came to rest. “A car, you say. Very well. I think you’re very well plucked, but I’ll do as you say. And while it’s coming the servants will bring you some tea.”
He strode to a door and passed out.
It was when Mrs. Cheviot had made the most of a mirror and had lighted a cigarette that she noticed the room.
This appeared to be a hall of fine proportions.
The walls had been painted black and then varnished. They gave the impression of having been japanned. Above them was a frieze, six feet in depth, of the colour of chocolate and as glossy as the black walls. The ceiling was more remarkable, presenting a pale brown surface covered with what appeared to be a rash and somewhat resembling linoleum which has been lightly waxed. The doors had been painted bright pink picked out with white, and the chimney-piece, which was of steel and must have weighed about three tons, was suggesting that a power-house had been spoiled of some doubtless locally useful but ungainly member of its plant.
As first one and then another of these peculiarities attracted her attention, Mrs. Cheviot began to wonder whether, after all, she had been killed and this was the antechamber of another world. The furniture, however, seemed normal, and the sudden appearance of a butler with tea-things was less supernatural than anything she could imagine. When the man addressed her there was no longer room for doubt.