It was extremely poorly furnished; a rickety table stood in the centre with a book or two and a basin with a plate, a saucepan hissed and bubbled on the fire; in the corner near the window stood a poor bed; and to this Anthony’s attention was immediately directed by a voice that called out hoarsely:
“Thank God, sir, thank God, sir, you have come! I feared you would not.”
Anthony stepped towards it wondering and expectant, but reassured. Lying in the bed, with clothes drawn up to the chin was the figure of a man. There was no light in the room, save that given by the leaping flames on the hearth; and Anthony could only make out the face of a man with a patch over one eye; the man stretched a hand over the bed clothes as he came near, and Anthony took it, a little astonished, and received a strong trembling grip of apparent excitement and relief: “Thank God, sir!” the man said again, “but there is not too much time.”
“How can I serve you?” said Anthony, sitting on a chair near the bedside. “Your letter spoke of friends at Great Keynes. What did you mean by that?”
“Is the d-door closed, sir?” asked the man anxiously; stuttering a little as he spoke.
Anthony stepped up and closed it firmly; and then came back and sat down again.
“Well then, sir; I believe you are a friend of the priest Mr. M-Maxwell’s.”
Anthony shook his head.
“There is no priest of that name that I know.”
“Ah,” cried the man, and his voice shook, “have I said too much? You are Mr. Anthony Norris of the Dower House, and of the Archbishop’s household?”...