“Who’s that?”
“It is I—Violet Christie. Is that you, Laurence?”
“Hush! All right!” he whispered back. “Let me in.”
He got in softly through the window, and, rather to my alarm, a middle-aged man in plain clothes, also with a lantern, followed him. Laurence himself looked more alarming than any thief. His face was ghastly white with fatigue, and dirtier than ever through long watching in the fog. He listened for a minute to the violin, then said quickly, but still in a low voice—
“Who is that playing?”
“Mr. Rayner,” I answered.
He turned sharply to the other man, who nodded as if to say it was just what he had expected.
“How long has he been playing?” asked Laurence.
“Ever since half-past seven.”
He turned to the other man again.