“Good evening, Mr. Hasbrouck,” said the young man, in a monotone. “Mr. Glendenning is expecting you. He has stayed up to see you. I shall tell him that you are here.”
Standing in the gloomy hallway, Hasbrouck watched the young man ascend the stairs. The regularity of the man’s step made him appear like a mechanical figure.
Now, within the portals of the old house, Hasbrouck strove to fight off that fearful impression which had gripped him so surprisingly. But it remained.
Hasbrouck turned quickly, in response to an unknown impulse. He stared at the dark velvet curtains that hung in front of the entrance to a side room. He reached forward and pressed his hand against one curtain. The heavy cloth wavered beneath his touch.
What lay in the darkness beyond?
A shudder shook Hasbrouck’s shoulders. His hand dropped quickly to his side. From the direction of the stairway came the sound of footsteps. The young man was returning. Hasbrouck assumed an attitude of composure.
“Come right up, Mr. Hasbrouck,” said the calm voice.
Hasbrouck felt less uneasy as he ascended the stairs and reached the second-story hall. A door was open at the front of the building. Passing the young man, Hasbrouck entered the front room alone.
An old man reclined in an easy-chair, propped up by pillows. He was attired in a dressing gown. His thin, gray hair heightened his aged appearance. A crop of white stubble covered his face. This was the recluse, Clinton Glendenning. His face was lined with marks of gloom and discontent.
The sight of this individual was momentarily reassuring to Don Hasbrouck. Clinton Glendenning was a man whom one might pity, but certainly not fear.