Another beam of light fell on the shining street. Some one had lighted the gas in the room upstairs. Was Griffin still below? Panic seized him. He must know. At all costs he must know. Dr. Harris’s surgery. . . . If he had to break in the front door he must know. As he reached it he tripped over an iron boot-scraper. The step barked his shin. Of course the door was locked, but—wonder of wonders—Rosie had left the latchkey outside. He opened the door softly and went on tip-toe into the hall. In the room on the right he still heard the grunting noise. Thank God, Griffin was still there! At least he could tell him that he knew!
He opened the door. In the half-light he could see that the room was empty except for Mrs. Beaucaire, who lay stretched on the sofa, snoring heavily with her vile mouth open. On the table stood an empty brandy bottle. The place stank of brandy.
Now he knew the worst. He stumbled upstairs in the dark and knocked frantically at the door of the front bedroom. Rosie answered: “Who is it?”
“It’s I. For God’s sake, let me in.”
“Who the devil is it?” said the voice of Dr. Harris’s consulting-room.
Rosie answered him in excited whispers.
“You can’t come in, Eddie,” she said. “How on earth did you get into the house? Please go away. I can’t see you. I can’t, really.”
“I’m coming in, I tell you. If you don’t open the door, I’ll smash it. I mean what I say.”
“Ingleby—?” the voice muttered. “What the devil has Ingleby to do with you? All right. I’ll go. I’ll chuck the fellow downstairs.”
“Oh, don’t . . . please don’t. . . . Let him go quietly.”