By way of reply, the man pushed his face near to Penderel’s, opened his mouth very wide, and pointed to it with a long dark forefinger. Then he padded away, leaving Penderel to gape through the open door. He must have retired to fetch his master, for it could hardly be his own house, though he looked more like a performing bear than a butler. Penderel wondered whether to walk forward into the large hall visible through the door or to return for a moment to the Wavertons, who must be wondering what was happening. He turned, however, only to find them at his elbow.
‘This is absurd,’ Mrs. Waverton was declaring indignantly. ‘Keeping us here like this! What’s the matter?’
He determined to put an easy face upon it. ‘The matter has just disappeared, to find somebody, I think. Did you see him? I don’t think he’s real.’
‘What did he say?’ Waverton asked.
‘Nothing. I don’t believe he could say anything. I don’t think he knows English or anything else. Wait until you have a good look at him. He’s a huge troll who’s got all rusty inside.’
Mrs. Waverton, as usual, seemed to brush away this kind of talk. ‘Let’s go in, Philip. They couldn’t refuse to let us stay, an awful night like this. And it’s ridiculous standing here.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Penderel, heartily. ‘As if we were carol-singers and this were some kind of devilish Christmas, perhaps Lucifer’s birthday.’
‘We’ll go in then,’ said Waverton. ‘But what about the car?’
‘They’ll tell us where to put it later. I must sit down somewhere where there isn’t any rain. My head screams with it.’ And Mrs. Waverton marched in, followed by the two men.
The first thing that Penderel noticed was that the house had electric light. Somehow he hadn’t expected that: it was impossible to imagine the giant troll fingering the switches or going round the accumulators. But the lights weren’t behaving properly though; they were jumping and flickering, and they made the whole place jumpy, queerly uncertain. It was the kind of hall you rarely see except on the stage, being both entrance hall and lounge (and, if necessary, dining and drawing rooms), lofty and panelled, with a large open fireplace in the left-hand far corner, a broad staircase running up on the right and a gallery above, with a door immediately on the left and two more on the right. The fire was a smouldering old ruin; the table in the centre was very old; and all the chairs seemed to be faded and crazy. There was something ruinous about the whole place, and though it was gloriously snug after the howling misery of the night outside, it hardly suggested comfort and a warm hospitality. Penderel decided that it had a smell of mice and old newspapers.