Prenderby followed him; both men were alert and tingling with expectation.
The noise continued; it was louder than before, and sounded peculiarly unearthly in that ghostly house.
Abbershaw was the first to peer round the door and look in.
‘Good Lord!’ he said at last, glancing back over his shoulder at Prenderby, ‘there’s not a soul here.’
The two men burst into the room, and the noise, although muffled, became louder still.
‘I say!’ said Prenderby, suddenly startled out of his annoyance, ‘it’s in there!’
Abbershaw followed the direction of his hand and gasped.
The extraordinary sounds were indubitably proceeding from the great oak press at the far end of the room – the wardrobe which he had locked himself not two hours before and the key of which was still heavy in his pocket. He turned to Michael.
‘Shut the door,’ he said. ‘Lock it, and take the key.’ Then he advanced towards the cupboard.
Michael Prenderby stood with his back against the door of the room, waiting.