"Rather!—why! what d'you think?"
But once outside the front door he felt a sudden sense of blankness. He hated tears and shrank from scenes with the wholesome distrust of perfect nerves. And then—that letter! His face darkened ... What an end to the evening! The unexpected with a vengeance. He started to descend the stairs when a sound below made him pause.
Some one was coming slowly up. The steps passed the third floor and moved toward the last flight.
McTaggart glanced quickly round. He felt a curious distaste to be found there at this hour, and his eyes fell on the lift, level with Fantine's door. He remembered he had brought her up, working the ropes himself, and there it stood in semi-darkness offering a hiding-place.
He stepped inside and sat down in the far corner, holding his breath, as a tall man came into sight muffled in an overcoat.
"He's going to the opposite flat. Jolly lucky the lift being here." McTaggart's soliloquy stopped short. He gave a little gasp of wonder.
For the man passed him, unaware of his presence, making straight for Fantine's door, with a light, noiseless step that seemed to the other oddly furtive.
Arrived there he paused a moment, then bent down and with his finger lifted up the narrow flap of the letter box and peered through.
Instantly McTaggart was on the defensive. He thought of Mrs. Merrod alone, without a single soul to guard her, and the opportunity it offered.
But the next moment the pseudo-thief produced a latch-key from his pocket, fitted it softly in the lock, and the light shone out through the opened door. Here the first check greeted him. For the key stuck and, as he turned, McTaggart caught a glimpse of his face with a sudden and bewildering shock.