But Mr. Porter's heart had sunk. The rosy vision of the warm fire, the comfortable bedroom slippers, well-cooked dinner, glass of wine, cigar, evening paper seemed to have retreated to an incalculable distance.
"Be as quick as you can," he said irritably. "I can't stand here all night catching my death of cold. How do I know it's not some cock-and-bull story? Hurry up! Hurry up!"
Silently and happily William led the way. Silently and miserably Mr. Porter followed. Mr. Porter disliked above all things departing a hair's breadth from his usual routine. What was it all about, anyway? What was Mary thinking of, sending that curious message? Who was this strange boy? His self-pity and righteous indignation increased at every step. Down the street ... round a corner ... in at a side-gate ... down a side-path past a house ... into a back garden.... What the——? The strange boy was holding open the door of a kind of outhouse.
"She said particular you was to go in here," said the boy simply.
"What the——?" blazed Mr. Porter. "What the——?" he sputtered again.
The boy looked at him dispassionately.
"She said particular you was to go in here."
"Into a——? Into a dirty, empty coal-shed? What——?"
Mr. Porter stepped into the outhouse and flashed his electric torch around it. In that second he satisfied himself that the shed was empty. In that second also the door banged to behind him and a key was turned in the lock.
"Here!" cried Mr. Porter angrily. "Where the——?"