“May I see her?”
“I regret to say she has retired.”
“I think she would see me.”
A door opened into the hall, throwing a shaft of light on the wall across and letting out the sounds of voices.
“Shut that door,” said Doyle, wheeling sharply. It was closed at once. “Now,” he said, turning to his visitor, “I'll tell you this. My niece is here.” He emphasized the “my.” “She has come to me for refuge, and I intend to give it to her. You won't see her to-night, and if you come from her people you can tell them she came here of her own free will, and that if she stays it will be because she wants to. Joe!” he called into the darkness.
“Yes,” came a sullen voice, after a moment's hesitation.
“Show this gentleman out.”
All at once Willy Cameron was staring at a closed door, on the inner side of which a bolt was being slipped. He felt absurd and futile, and not at all like a lion. With the revolver in his hand, he went down the steps.
“Don't bother about the gate, Joe,” he said. “I like to open my own gates. And—don't try any tricks, Joe. Get back to your kennel.”
Fearful mutterings followed that, but the shadow retired, and he made an undisturbed exit to the street. Once on the street-car, the entire episode became unreal and theatrical, with only the drag of Joe's revolver in his coat pocket to prove its reality.