He followed Jessop up the steps, and through the big door. Facing him were wide shallow oak stairs, uncovered and polished. Great Turkish rugs lay on the hall floor; two huge palms in big Oriental pots stood at either side of the stairs; hunting crops and antlers adorned the walls. Jessop opened a door on the right. Almost before Antony had realized what was happening, the butler had withdrawn and closed the door behind him.
Antony half turned in amazement towards the door.
“Ahem!”
With a start Antony turned back into the room. It was not empty, as he had imagined it to be. A white-haired, black-eyed man was sitting in a big oak chair, his colourless hands resting on the arms.
“Well?” said the man.
Memory surged over Antony in a flood. Alteration there unquestionably was in the crippled form before him, but the black piercing eyes were unchanged. The suddenness of his surprise made his brain reel. He put out his hand towards the back of a chair to steady himself.
“So you know me, Antony Gray,” came the mocking old voice.
“Nicholas Danver,” Antony heard himself saying, though he hardly realized he was speaking the words.
“Exactly,” smiled Nicholas, “not dead, but very much alive, though not—” he glanced down at his helpless legs,—“precisely what you might term kicking.”
Antony drew a deep breath. What in the name of wonder did this astounding drama portend?