He moved restlessly, and then rose to his feet. An idea had struck him. It was possible Gascoyne had left a note or a message for him at his flat across the way.
“Excuse me a minute, won’t you? I’ve left something at my flat that I want.”
He hurried away. In five minutes he was back again, holding a note in his hand.
“He left this at my flat this afternoon,” said Bruton, agitatedly; “what does it mean?”
Cassels read the following.
I’m not coming to-night. I’m staying at home. All the loveliness of the world has become cruel. Sympathy is an intrusion and kindness bruises. Yet if you and your friend would like to come and get drunk with me to-night, you will be welcome.
“I understand his mood well enough,” said Cassels. “We’d better be getting along, hadn’t we? The best thing we can do is to let him drink himself to sleep. To-morrow we’ll put the screw on.”
They hurried down the road and in a quarter of an hour had reached the big white house with the green shutters. In the moonlight it looked insubstantial, ethereal, like some enormous ghostly bird preparing for flight. The door of the main entrance showed there was a light in the hall, and through the half-closed shutters of one of the rooms on the ground-floor more light revealed itself.
They rang, but there was no response. Nor did their knocking evoke any movement they could hear. Ringing and knocking alternately, they stood for five minutes or so, speaking little, but into the hearts of both of them fear had begun to creep.