This door was also shut and he turned back, but feeling that, perhaps, after all, Brettison might be in, he knocked; waited; knocked again, and stood listening.
“Off somewhere again picking flowers,” muttered Guest. “Men begin by picking them as children, and some end their lives gathering the sweet, innocent looking things.”
He, however, gave one more double knock before turning away and going back to Stratton’s door.
Here he knocked gently, but there was no reply. He knocked again, feeling a sensation of nervousness come over him as he thought of the words of the porter’s wife; and, as there was no reply, he could not help a little self-congratulation at there being no admission.
But he frowned at his weakness directly.
“Absurd! Cowardice!” he muttered. “This is nothing like acting the friend.”
He knocked again, and, as there was still silence, he lifted the cover of the letter slit and placed his lips to the place.
“Here, Malcolm, old fellow, open this door,” he cried. “I’m sure you are there.”
A faint rustling sound within told him he was right, and directly after the door was opened.
“You, Percy!” said the hollow-faced, haggard man, staring at him, and giving way unwillingly as, forcing himself to act, Guest stepped forward and entered the room.