Of me he asked in a whisper,
‘Did you bring a revolver?’
I was startled.
‘A revolver?—The idea!—How absurd you are!’
Sydney said something which was so rude—and so uncalled for!—that it was worthy of papa in his most violent moments.
‘I’d sooner be absurd than a fool in petticoats.’ I was so angry that I did not know what to say,—and before I could say it he went on. ‘Keep your eyes and ears well open; be surprised at nothing you see or hear. Stick close to me. And for goodness sake remain mistress of as many of your senses as you conveniently can.’
I had not the least idea what was the meaning of it all. To me there seemed nothing to make such a pother about. And yet I was conscious of a fluttering of the heart as if there soon might be something. I knew Sydney sufficiently well to be aware that he was one of the last men in the world to make a fuss without reason,—and that he was as little likely to suppose that there was a reason when as a matter of fact there was none.
Mr Holt led the way, as Sydney desired—or, rather, commanded, to the door of the room which was in front of the house. The door was closed. Sydney tapped on a panel. All was silence. He tapped again.
‘Anyone in there?’ he demanded.
As there was still no answer, he tried the handle. The door was locked.