“There, now you are satisfied,” said the old lawyer, gently. “Go and change your robe.”
The Indian shook his head.
“I will stay till your return inside the room.”
“Inside?” said the Indian.
“Yes—why not? You and I have reached the time of life when death has ceased to have terrors. He is only taking the sleep that comes to all.”
There was a gentle sadness in the lawyer’s voice, and then, turning the handle of the door, he opened it and stood looking back.
“You will not be long,” he said. “They are waiting for me in the drawing-room.”
The door closed just as the old Indian made a step forward to follow. Then he stood with his hands clenched and eyes starting listening intently, while the centaur’s club seemed to be quivering in the gloom, ready to crush him down.
The old man raised his hand to the door—let it fall—raised it again—let it fall—turned to go—started back—and then, as if fighting hard with himself, he turned once more, and with an activity not to be expected in one of his years, bounded up the staircase and disappeared.
Ten minutes had not elapsed before he seemed to come silently out of the gloom again, and was half-way to the door, when there was a faint creak from below, as if from a rusty hinge.