“It depends on the diary,” Sir Clinton amended. “But I confess to some hopes.”
As they drew near the door of Heatherfield, Dr. Ringwood's thoughts reverted to the state of things in the house. Glancing up at the front, his eye was caught by a lighted window which had been dark on his previous visit.
“That looks like a bedroom up there with the light on,” he pointed out to his companion. “It wasn't lit up last time I was here. Perhaps Silverdale or his wife has come home.”
A shapeless shadow swept momentarily across the curtains of the lighted room as they watched.
“That's a relief to my mind,” the doctor confessed. “I didn't quite like leaving that maid alone with my patient. One never can tell what may happen in a fever case.”
As they were ascending the steps, a further thought struck him.
“Do you want to be advertised here—your name, I mean?”
“I think not, at present, so long as I can telephone without being overheard.”
“Very well. I'll fix it,” Dr. Ringwood agreed, as he put his finger on the bell-push.
Much to his surprise, his ring brought no one to the door.