Stott pushed past the agitated Mrs. Reade, and went into the sitting-room. He had had neither breakfast nor lunch; there was no sign of any preparation for his tea, and the fireplace was grey with the cinders of last night’s fire. For some minutes he sat in deep despondency, a hero faced with the uncompromising detail of domestic neglect. Then he rose and called to the nurse.
She appeared at the head of the steep, narrow staircase. “Sh!” she warned, with a finger to her lips.
“I’m goin’ out again,” said Stott in a slightly modulated voice.
“Mrs. Reade’s coming back presently,” replied the nurse, and looked over her shoulder.
“Want me to wait?” asked Stott.
The nurse came down a few steps. “It’s only in case any one was wanted,” she began, “I’ve got two of ’em on my hands, you see. They’re both doing well as far as that goes. Only....” She broke off and drifted into small talk. Ever and again she stopped and listened intently, and looked back towards the half-open door of the upstairs room.
Stott fidgeted, and then, as the flow of conversation gave no sign of running dry, he damned it abruptly. “Look ’ere, miss,” he said, “I’ve ’ad nothing to eat since last night.”
“Oh! dear!” ejaculated the nurse. “If—perhaps, if you’d just stay here and listen, I could get you something.” She seemed relieved to have some excuse for coming down.
While she bustled about the kitchen, Stott, half-way upstairs, stayed and listened. The house was very silent, the only sound was the hushed clatter made by the nurse in the kitchen. There was an atmosphere of wariness about the place that affected even so callous a person as Stott. He listened with strained attention, his eyes fixed on the half-open door. He was not an imaginative man, but he was beset with apprehension as to what lay behind that door. He looked for something inhuman that might come crawling through the aperture, something grotesque, preternaturally wise and threatening—something horribly unnatural.
The window of the upstairs room was evidently open, and now and again the door creaked faintly. When that happened Stott gripped the handrail, and grew damp and hot. He looked always at the shadows under the door—if it crawled....