"What a cowardly donkey that Joseph is, barring up the house before bedtime!" quoth Hickens to himself as he threw wide the door.
Threw it wide, and admitted two of the officers. The other one remained with the horses.
CHAPTER XXIII.
SEEN IN THE GALLERY BY MOONLIGHT.
Mr. Chandos advanced with suavity; the officers saluted him and took off their hats. He held his handkerchief to his face, as if fearing the draught: I knew that it was to shade his livid countenance.
"A late visit, gentlemen! To what am I indebted for it?"
He had been gradually withdrawing to the oak-parlour as he spoke, and they came with him. I drew back in confused indecision, and stood humbly in the remotest and darkest corner. I had not courage to quit the room, for I must have brushed by them: I hoped that Mr. Chandos would see and dismiss me. But no; he never looked my way. He closed the door, in the face of Hickens, whose state of mind was a pretty even balance between wonder and dismay.
"We could not get here sooner, sir," observed one of the officers, who spoke quite like a gentleman, "but we hope the delay has not been inconvenient to you. The inspector, to whom your note was addressed, was out when it arrived, so that it was not opened immediately."
Had the sentence been spoken in an unknown tongue, it could not more completely have puzzled Mr. Chandos, to judge by his looks.
"What note do you speak of?"
"The note you sent in to-day."