There appeared to be no knocker, though whether it had been "twisted" off was more than I could say. But there was a bell, which creaked with rust, though it was not broken. I heard it tinkle in the distance. No answer; though I allowed a more than decent interval.
"Better ring again," suggested the driver. "Hard. Maybe they're up to some of their games, and wants rousing."
Was there a chuckle in the fellow's voice? I rang again, and again with all the force I could. The bell reverberated through what seemed like an empty house.
"Is there no one in the place?"
"They're there right enough. Where's another thing. Maybe on the roof; or in the cellar. If they know you're coming perhaps they hear and don't choose to answer. Better ring again."
I sounded another peal. Presently feet were heard advancing along the passage--several pairs it seemed--and a light gleamed through the window over the door. A voice inquired: "Who's there?"
"Mr. Christopher, from London."
The information was greeted with what sounded uncommonly like a chorus of laughter. There was a rush of retreating feet, an expostulating voice, then darkness again, and silence.
"Who lives here? Are the people mad?"
"Well--thereabouts."