Mr. Poole was alone. All manner of lurking terrors preyed upon him. There were noises. Sounds which seemed like the master’s voice. Sounds which seemed like the rustling of curtains, whispering and soft footsteps. Elusive sounds as of doors opening and shutting. Mr. Poole trembled. He knew, his fears groundless; imaginings born of the roaring rattle of the Universe. But nevertheless he trembled.
Suddenly there came a knocking on the great front door. This knocking was not loud, yet it seemed to the old man the more terrible for that. For there is always something terrible about a knock upon a door.
For a full minute he strove to leave the shelter of the little, cheerful, glowing room. At last he succeeded, struggling through the beastly mysteries of the dimly lighted hall to open with trembling hands the great oak door.
Anthony stepped over the threshold; stripped off dripping cap and mackintosh.
“A dirty night, Poole,” he said.
“It is indeed, sir! Indeed it is, sir!” The old man’s voice was hysterical with relief.
Across the hall to them came Sir Arthur, sturdy, benign, hair as smoothly brushed as ever.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Gethryn?” he said. “I wondered who was knocking. You must have very pressing business to bring you up here on a night like this. Aren’t you wet?”
“Nothing to speak of. I wanted to talk with you. It’s important—and urgent.”
Sir Arthur grew eager. “My dear boy, of course. Where shall we go? Billiard-room?”