Once more I suspected the driver of a chuckle. My temper was rising. I had not come all that way, and subjected myself to so much discomfort, to be played tricks with. I tolled the bell again. After a few seconds' interval the pit-pat of what was obviously one pair of feet came towards the door. Again a light gleamed through the pane. A key was turned, a chain unfastened, bolts withdrawn; it seemed as if some one had to drag a chair forward before one of these latter could be reached. After a vast amount of unfastening, the door was opened, and on the threshold there stood a girl, with a lighted candle in her hand. The storm rushed in; she put up her hand to shield the light from danger.
"Can I see Mrs. Wilson? I'm expected. I'm Mr. Christopher, from London."
"Oh!"
That was all she said. I looked at her; she at me. The driver's voice came from the background.
"I drove him over from the station, Miss. There be a lot of luggage. He do say he's come to stay with you."
"Is that you, Tidy? I'm afraid I can offer you nothing to drink. We've lost the key of the cellar, and there's nothing out, except water, and I don't think you'd care for that."
"I can't say rightly as how I should, Miss. Next time will do. Be it all right?"
The girl continued to regard me.
"Perhaps you had better come inside."
"I think I had."