“If the gentleman feels queer, sir, he’d better not go on with it,” said the sergeant, also in a low voice, as if impressed by the place. “He isn’t used to it; we are.”
“Yes,” said the workman. “Not our first case, eh, pardner?”
But even he spoke below his breath.
“No, I’ll stay,” said Stratton more firmly. “I have been ill, officer, and it has left me weak.”
“Then don’t try it, sir. You can leave it to us.”
“Go on,” said Stratton, after drawing a long, gasping breath; “I am quite right now.”
“Spoken like an Englishman, sir,” said the sergeant. “Party’s likeness, gents?” he said, as the light shone full on the oil-painting across the room; the face of the grey, benevolent-looking man seeming to gaze at them reproachfully.
“Yes, my old friend’s portrait,” said Stratton, with a sigh.
“Better let me go first, sir,” said the sergeant, pressing before Stratton, who was about to enter, but he was too late. Stratton took a step forward, caught his foot against something, and nearly fell headlong into the room.
“Mind my tools, please,” growled the workman, stooping to pick up his bag, which had lain in the darkness of the opening; and then all stepped cautiously into the well-furnished room, which was, in almost every respect, a repetition of Stratton’s, only reversed, and a good deal encumbered with large, open cases full of bulky folios, containing series of pressed and dried plants. These hid a great deal of the panelling and carving, save on the right, where, on either side of the beautiful old fireplace, were two low doors, formerly the entrances to the passages which connected the room with Stratton’s when they were part of a suite.