CHAPTER XXI. AT THE BIDDING OF THE UNKNOWN
The windows of Borton's shone cheerfully, although it was past midnight. At our cautious approach a signal was given, and with the answering word a man appeared from the obscurity.
“All safe?” I inquired.
“It's all right,” said Barkhouse. “There's a dozen men in the bar-room, and I'm not sure there ain't some of the hounds amongst them. But you're to go in the side door, and right up stairs.”
“Two of you may keep at the foot of the stairs, just inside the door,” I said. “You may stand watch outside, Barkhouse.”
There was sound of rude song, and the clink of glass and bottle in the bar and dining-room, as I passed through the side hall. But the door was closed, and I saw nothing of the late revelers. In the upper hallway Mother Borton stood by an open door, silhouetted dark and threatening against the dim flickerings that came from the candle in the room behind her.
I had but opened my mouth to give her word of greeting when she raised a warning claw, and then seizing me, drew me swiftly into the room and closed and locked the door.
“How air ye, dearie?” she said, surveying me with some apparent pride. “You're safe and whole, ain't ye?”