“What is it?”
No reply.
“Is there some one ill in the village?”
Still no reply.
Andy pushed back the door and came near to the man.
“You—Stamford!”
“Yes. I was—er—passing. I thought I’d drop in,” said Dick.
“Come in,” said Andy briefly, leading the way with a lighted candle in his hand. He expected to hear his guest stumble, for it seemed improbable that any one would call on a friend in the country at one o’clock in the morning if he were quite sober. But there was no sign of drink about Dick as he stood near the mantelpiece, fidgeting with the ornaments. He only looked very uncomfortable.
“Sit down,” said Andy, trying to treat it as an ordinary call. “Been a lovely day, hasn’t it?”
But Stamford did not sit down, and his rather heavy, florid face was deep crimson in the candlelight.