“He’s absent-minded,” said Tarlyon, looking thoughtfully at the dark space.
“What I want to know,” he whispered, “is what he’s doing in there in the dark?”
“Keeping his appointment,” I suggested facetiously.
Tarlyon looked from the door to me.
“Poor devil!” he said softly. I thought he was pitying me for my wit, of which I was never very proud.
He put down his empty glass, dug his hands into his pockets, and lounged to the folding-doors. I never knew a man who could walk so casually as Tarlyon; you never expected him to get anywhere, but he always got there before you expected him to.
He kicked the slightly open door a little wider with the tip of his shoe. I was just behind his shoulder.
“Antony!” he called softly.
From the light in which we stood the library was a pit of darkness. Nothing moved in the pit. There was no sound.
“He’s not there,” I whispered; and I wondered why I whispered.