“Hilton and Chumbley.”
“Oh, it’s all right. They’re somewhere; but it’s very foolish of them to frighten some people and rouse others up like this,” said the doctor.
“I hope we shall find a pleasant solution of what is at present a mystery,” said the Resident. “Mrs Bolter, it is very kind of you to come,” he added, warmly.
“Yes; I thank you too,” said Perowne, in a dreamy, absent way. “It is very strange; but where is Miss Stuart?”
“Stuart said she was asleep,” said the Resident.
“Oh, to be sure. Yes; I remember,” said Mr Perowne.
“We took her safely home,” said Mrs Bolter, quickly.
They had not far to go to the gates of the merchant’s grounds, but it seemed to all to be a long and dreary walk past the various dark houses of the European and native merchants, not one of which gave any token of the life within.
The gates were open, and they walked over the gritting gravel to where the door stood, like the windows of the bungalow, still open, and a lamp or two were yet burning in the grounds, one of which paper lanterns, as they approached, caught fire, and blazed up for a moment and then hung, a few shreds of tinder, from a verdant arch.
It was a mere trifle, but it seemed like a presage of some trouble to the house, seen as it was by those who approached, three of the party being in that unreal, uncomfortable state suffered by all who are roused from their sleep to hear that there is “something wrong.”