A short while later the crowd reached the red house, a low structure, built of bricks, many of which were cracked and crumbled.
All entered the house, and Bob saw the door closed, and heard no more.
The youth had been dropping slips of paper all the way. He now took a larger slip and wrote this message upon it:
“All in the red house. I am going in to listen. If I am all right, I will come back for this slip.”
Bob had just finished writing the slip when a low rumble of thunder reached his ears. He glanced up and saw that a shower was coming up from the west.
“Good!” he muttered. “The darkness and the wind may help me.”
Two sides of the red house were surrounded by trees and bushes, and darting among them the youth had no difficulty in reaching a side door, which stood partly open.
Listening intently, the young photographer heard a murmur of voices in the front, showing that the crowd had entered what had once been a sitting-room.
Throwing a number of strips of paper just outside of the door, Bob pushed his way inside.
All was full of dirt and cobwebs, but to this the youth paid no attention. He had a mission, and he felt in duty bound to fulfil it, despite either dirt or danger.