She struck another match, and saw. Either we had been the victims of an ocular delusion, or something curious had taken place since she had struck the first, for where, just now, there was a blank wall, in which was no sign of any opening, a door stood wide open. I could not credit the evidence of my own eyes.
“I declare,” I cried, “it wasn’t there just now.”
“It was not visible, at any rate. I tell you what, my dear, we mayn’t be the only occupants of this establishment, that’s about the truth of it. It’s possible that there’s someone behind the scenes who’s pulling the strings.”
I did not like the ideas which her words conjured up at all.
“But—who can it be?”
“That’s for us to discover.”
There was a grimness about her tone which suggested what was, to me, a new side of Pollie’s character. My impulse was to get away from the place as fast as ever I could and never return to it again. She spoke as if she were not only resolved to remain, and defied anyone to turn her out who could, but as if she had a positive appetite for any—to put it mildly—disagreeable experiences which her remaining might involve. The first horror she encountered then and there. If she did not mind it—I only wish that I could say the same of myself!
“You left the candle in the hall; let’s go and fetch it.”
As soon as we set foot outside that entry there was a pandemonium of sounds, as of a legion rushing, scrambling, squeaking. It was rats—myriads. The whole house swarmed with them; they were everywhere. They were about our feet; I felt them rushing over my boots, whirling against my skirts. One rat is bad enough, in the light, but in the dark—that multitude! I had to scream; to stumble blindfold among those writhing creatures, and keep still, was altogether too much for my capacity.
“Pollie!—light a match!—quick!—they’re all over me!—Pollie!”