The room to which he was led had been prepared for weeks. It faced the East. It was large and was furnished with a huge black walnut bed, a cool matting of green, a great high-boy with brass handles, and a bureau with drawers two feet deep. White dimity curtains fluttered at the windows. But for the moment John interested him more than the homely furnishings.
John was as stoical as an English butler. He was short, stout, and of that non-committal middle age which ranges between twenty-five and forty. He met one’s eyes with a sort of timid stare and a suggestion that he knew and he would tell. There was a nodding mystery about him. He made Barnes feel like searching the room to see what it was that the man silently hinted might be concealed. John was a piquer of curiosity—a caballer with the unknown.
“John,” suggested Barnes after the man had thrown back the spread, shown him his bath, and glanced about significantly for his baggage. “John, I think you’d better look under the bed.”
John obeyed and stared so long into a dark corner there, that Barnes took a position on his knees beside him.
“Did you see anything move?” he inquired.
“Move? Where, sir?” John gasped.
“Over there. A sort of—Thing.”
“Good Lord, sir!”
“I may have been mistaken,” Barnes admitted, “but perhaps we’d better examine the closets.”
John crossed the room with some hesitation and with many backward glances. He opened the closet door the matter of a foot and peered in. Barnes coughed. John darted back.