“The bolt’s off.”
It would seem that doors were incidental barriers in King’s Forest. No one was expected to regard them seriously.
Northrup entered and then stood still.
He was alive to impressions, and this second room, within a short space of time, had power, also, to arouse surprise. There was no sunlight here––the overshadowing piazza prevented that––but there were two enormous fireplaces, one at either end of the large room, and upon the hearths of both generous fires were burning ruddily.
By the one nearer to Northrup sat a man with a bandaged leg stretched out before him on a stool, and a gold-and-white collie at his side. The man was elderly, stout, and imposing. His curly gray hair sprang––no other word conveyed the impression of the vitality and alertness of the hair––above a 10 rosy, genial face; the eyes were small, keen, and full of humour, the voice had already given a suggestion of welcome.
“You are Mr. Heathcote, I suppose?”
Northrup was subconsciously aware of the good old mahogany furniture; the well-kept appearance of everything.
“You’ve struck it right. Will you set?”
“Thanks.”
Northrup took the chair opposite the master of the inn.