“What of her, eh?” I cried. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! She is affected—perhaps her life or death depends upon—something—or somebody—that is behind the wall—the blue wall—something in your house next door. Come! Let us go back there. Let us force this thing. It is your home! Enter it!”
“I can’t!” he cried, thrusting his fingers upward.
“Can’t!” I roared at him.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. I have promised her. She has my word.”
“But think, man, what may be going on there!” I said.
“I have sworn not to pass the door,” he said obstinately. “Heaven knows I am nearly crazy for light upon all this. But I must keep my word!”
As if to lend emphasis to his exclamation, a gust of wind roaring through the trees of the park brought the first deluge of rain—a cold, stinging downpour of the wild autumn night. Estabrook shivered. I could see that he was a man, badly tired, unnerved, and still dizzy from the blow I had given him.
“Follow me,” said I roughly. “You need warmth—stimulant. And I want your story, Estabrook.”
He looked at me with an empty stare, but at last nodded his assent, and without another word between us, we came to this house and into this very room.
He sat there before the fire—burning then as it is now—and as the warmth penetrated his trembling body, he seemed to regain his self-composure.