They all stood bunched together and dripping near the door, and waited in silence for something to happen. After the first glance round, Penderel fixed his eyes on the staircase, down which—if life were what it ought to be—a lady with a long white train should come sweeping, with a great candlestick in each hand. He watched the stairs jump with the lights, and had a sudden daft desire to rush to the bottom of them, strike an attitude, and say something very romantic at the top of his voice. Enter the three wettest people in Christendom: one of them, obviously a tragic clown, approaches the jumping stairs. What a pity people didn’t really think of life as a play, taking care to come on properly, to say and do no more than was necessary, and then to make a good clean exit. If there were any drinks going later, he must point that out to Waverton: it was one of those things you can only say over a drink.
The first door on the right suddenly opened and a thin elderly man in black walked into the hall, halting when he was a few paces from them. He was followed by a waddling old woman who came up and looked them over curiously with eyes like tiny black buttons. At the back was the huge creature, who stood lumpishly near the door.
‘My name is Femm,’ said the thin man, ‘Horace Femm. I cannot understand what is the matter. Our servant, Morgan there, is dumb.’ His voice was as thin as he was, very dry and harsh, and he spoke with a curious and disconcerting precision.
Penderel cleared his throat, but Mrs. Waverton cut in before him, hastily giving their names and declaring their errand.
‘Shelter?’ Mr. Femm looked dubious and put his long hand to his chin. You seemed to hear bone rubbing bone.
‘What is it?’ the old woman suddenly screamed, making them all jump.
Mr. Femm pushed out his neck, bringing his mouth nearer to the hand she held to her ear. Instead of raising his voice he contrived to make it extraordinarily penetrating by hissing his words. The effect was strangely sinister, and indeed he seemed to turn a malignant eye upon the woman. ‘Shelter,’ he hissed. ‘They want to stay here all night.’ It sounded rather like the villain of old-fashioned melodrama.
The other shook her head. ‘They can’t. We can’t have them here.’ Although she had examined them so thoroughly, she talked as if they weren’t really there.
‘You see how it is,’ said Mr. Femm, in his ordinary tones. ‘My sister, Rebecca here, is somewhat deaf. Morgan, as I have already pointed out, is dumb. My brother, Sir Roderick Femm, the master of this house, is confined to his bed upstairs, very old, very weak, and may not live long. Though not, I beg to assure you, without hospitable instincts, I myself am as rusty as an old file. This house is partly a barn and partly a ruin and could not accommodate you even for a night. I advise you, for your own sakes, to look elsewhere. There is, I believe, an inn about twelve miles from here.’
These people might have been living in another world; they didn’t seem to know what was happening all round them; it was time now to make them understand the situation. All three began explaining at once. Mrs. Waverton went up to Miss Femm and shouted in her ear. Penderel and Waverton hustled the uncomprehending Mr. Femm to the open door and confronted him with the black and torrential night itself, through which there still came a menacing roar.