“More hospitable than his master, I should say,” Archibald commented. “I wonder if the man is home.”
They reached the door which stood partly open, and rapped on it.
No sound came from within. Archibald rapped again. The terrier ran through the opening and barked encouragement across his shoulder.
“I believe something’s the matter,” said Pegeen suddenly. “Let’s go in.”
She pushed the door open and before Archibald could stop her stepped inside. He followed her and they stood in a filthy little room that had once been the parlor of the house. Moldy paper was hanging from the walls. Much of the plaster had fallen from the ceiling and lay where it fell. One or two rickety chairs were the only attempt at furnishing and the accumulated dirt of years littered the floor.
No one was in sight, but the dog ran on into a back room and from there the intruder heard a low mumbling voice.
“Stay here, Peg,” Archibald said authoritatively. “He’s drunk.”
But her instinct drove her quickly forward, in spite of his command.
“He’s sick,” she said.
Standing in the second doorway they looked into a room as dirty and neglected as the first, but they did not notice walls or ceiling or floor, for on a cot by the farther wall lay Ezra Watts, haggard, ghastly, purple-faced, unseeing, tossing restlessly on an unspeakably dirty bed and muttering meaningless things.