The house was solidly constructed, and the stair carpets were thick, so he could move without making the least sound. As he came down the last steps to the hall the place looked vast, and the men in armour interested and not too surely amiable spectators of the scene.
A small figure stood at the foot of the stairs. It was Patsy.
“Is all right, Patsy?” whispered Mr Fanshawe.
“I b’lave so, sir,” said Patsy in the same tone of voice. “I slipped out quarter of an hour ago, and Larry, he’s strawed the yard, and he was openin’ the coach-house dure to get the cart out. He’s done everything all right, but he’s rockin’ drunk.”
“Good heavens!” said Dicky.
“Oh, he’ll drive all right, sir,” said Patsy. “Drunk or sober is all the same to Larry, as long as he’s got the ribbons in his hand.”
A slight sound from above drew Mr Fanshawe’s attention. It was Doris fully dressed, with a candle in her hand, and Bob. Bob was making short slides down the banisters as he came, with one leg hanging over the hall. It only required that he should tumble over and break his leg to precipitate the disaster Mr Fanshawe dimly felt to be impending.
“If he does,” thought Dicky, “I’ll break the little beast’s neck, to complete the business.”
“Here we are, Mr Fanshawe,” said Doris in a joyful whisper, as she and Bob arrived at the foot of the stairs without accident.
Mr Fanshawe did not answer, he was looking up. A faint star of light was gliding downwards, ghostly and glow-worm like. It was Miss Lestrange dressed in a mole-skin cloak, a travelling bag in one hand, and a candle in the other.