Mr. Fentolin’s frown was malign even for him.
“Our dear friend, Mr. Hamel, I suppose,” he muttered. “Another little debt we shall owe him! Try the other door.”
Meekins moved towards the partition. Suddenly he paused. Mr. Fentolin’s hand was outstretched; he, too, was listening. Above the low thunder of the sea came another sound, a sound which at that moment they none of them probably understood. There was the steady crashing of feet upon the pebbles, a low murmur of voices. Mr. Fentolin for the first time showed symptoms of fear.
“Try the other door quickly,” he directed.
Meekins came back, shaking his head. Outside, the noise seemed to be increasing. The door was suddenly thrown open. Hannah Cox stood outside in her plain black dress, her hair wind-tossed, her eyes aflame. She held the key in her fingers, and she looked in upon them. Her lips seemed to move, but she said nothing.
“My good woman,” Mr. Fentolin exclaimed, frowning, “are you the person who removed that key?”
She laid her hand upon his chair. She took no notice of the other two.
“Come,” she said, “there is something here I want you to listen to. Come!”