He still felt a slight trace of the awe that had gripped him here, for this had been his uncle’s room — the uncle whom Bob remembered as a stern, gray, grim-faced man.
“Does it remind you of old times, sir?”
The question came from Hodgson, the old servant. Hodgson had been Theodore Galvin’s attendant for many years. To Bob, he seemed like a part of this old room.
“Yes,” replied Bob, “it does. So do you, Hodgson. You’re just the same as you were — why, it must be nearly twenty years ago!”
The servant nodded.
“Close to that since you left here, sir. I’m not the same as I was then, sir. I can’t see the way I did once. My eyes” — he shook his head sadly — “are very poor, sir. It seems like I feel my way about the house, Mr. Bob. I know the place so well—”
But Bob Galvin wasn’t listening. Instead, he stiffened as his eyes, turning toward the heavy casement window, fixed themselves for a moment on a strange form outside.
It was a face, shrouded in the shadows. The lower part of the face was hidden in blackness, but the piercing eyes seemed to be studying Bob’s own features. Bob only had a chance to see the face an instant — then it was gone.
The old butler sensed that something was wrong. He turned toward Bob.
“What — what was it, sir,” he stammered. “Did you feel suddenly — suddenly ill?”