It lay in a direct line, and the path was narrow, but he meant to tread it.
That duty covered his professional pride, and the feeling he entertained for his friend. Straight up to the house he went. Light streamed from the windows and showed him the way—it also tempted him to look in. He saw a cozy little room neatly furnished.
Handsome paintings adorned the walls, rather out of place in a modest cottage like this, but then it was to be the abode of an artist, whose pictures commanded large sums, and he could afford to decorate above the ordinary—these were doubtless favorite subjects of his which he did not hold for sale.
No one seemed to be in this room, and he could not see in the other well, for the lamp was standing directly in the window, so that he could not look past it.
He found a path leading around the house and started along it.
Before he had gone far, the rattle of a chain, followed by a deep growl, told him he had better retrace his steps again—not wishing to come into contact with the concealed dog, he did so.
This time he went to the front door, which was almost concealed under the bower of vines.
Feeling around he found the knob. Upon trying it he was pleased to find that the door was not secured, and answered to his touch.
He opened it boldly. A hall was before him. Just then it was unoccupied, and the uninvited guest was able to step in, close the door, and look around for some place of concealment. This he easily found.
The hall offered numerous opportunities for hiding if one felt inclined that way, and Eric speedily ensconced himself in a place where he was not apt to be seen. He remained here awaiting developments for a few minutes.