Momentarily the noise increased. One began to individualise voices; to realise that the tumult was the product of a thousand different throats.
"Some riot, I suppose. One of their periodical differences with the police. What's that?"
II
THE CIGAR WHICH WAS SMOKED
"That" was the sound of heavy footsteps hastening towards the study door. The handle was turned; a fist was banged against the panel.
"Who's here?"
"I am here! Let me in!"
The voice was quick, sharp, abrupt, distinctly threatening. The Rev. Simon looked round the room with shifty, inquiring eyes. He whispered to himself.
"Philip Avalon? My sister's son? What does he want with me?" He felt, with his fingers, the edge of the knife which he was holding. He asked aloud, in a voice which was more than sufficiently stern, "What do you want with me, sir?"
"I want to speak to you. Do you hear? Be quick and let me in!"