Down staircases and various passages I went with my eye glued upon the wire, which occasionally got mixed up with other wires, till at length it led me through a swing door covered with red baize into what appeared to be a modern annexe to the castle. Here at last it terminated on the spring of an alarming-looking and deep-throated bell that hung immediately over a certain door.
On this door I knocked, hoping that it might be that of Mr. Savage and praying earnestly that it did not enclose the chaste resting-place of the cook or any other female. Too late, I mean after I had knocked, it occurred to me that if so my position would be painful to a degree. However in this particular Fortune stood my friend, which does not always happen to the virtuous. For presently I heard a voice which I recognized as that of Mr. Savage, asking, not without a certain quaver in its tone,
“Who the devil is that?”
“Me,” I replied, being flustered.
“‘Me’ won’t do,” said the voice. “‘Me’ might be Harum or it might be Scarum, or it might be someone worse. Who’s ‘Me’?”
“Allan Quatermain, you idiot,” I whispered through the keyhole.
“Anna who? Well, never mind. Go away, Hanna. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Then I kicked the door, and at length, very cautiously, Mr. Savage opened it.
“Good heavens, sir,” he said, “what are you doing here, sir? Dressed too, at this hour, and with the handle of a pistol sticking out of your pocket—or is it—the head of a snake?” and he jumped back, a strange and stately figure in a long white nightshirt which apparently he wore over his underclothing.
I entered the room and shut the door, whereon he politely handed me a chair, remarking,