There was no reply for a moment, and then the door was opened.
“Get the portmanteau down,” said John to the driver.
“Do nothing of the kind,” said Alan; and then to John, “Come in here a moment. I want to speak to you.”
John entered the garden, and the door was closed behind him. A candle stood on the gravel walk, winking a little in the draughts; it threw inconstant sparkles on the clumped holly, struck the light and darkness to and fro like a veil on Alan’s features, and sent his shadow hovering behind him. All beyond was inscrutable; and John’s dizzy brain rocked with the shadow. Yet even so, it struck him that Alan was pale, and his voice, when he spoke, unnatural.
“What brings you here to-night?” he began. “I don’t want, God knows, to seem unfriendly; but I cannot take you in, Nicholson; I cannot do it.”
“Alan,” said John, “you’ve just got to! You don’t know the mess I’m in; the governor’s turned me out, and I daren’t show face in an inn, because they’re down on me for murder or something!”
“For what?” cried Alan, starting.
“Murder, I believe,” says John.
“Murder!” repeated Alan, and passed his hand over his eyes. “What was that you were saying?” he asked again.
“That they were down on me,” said John. “I’m accused of murder, by what I can make out; and I’ve really had a dreadful day of it, Alan, and I can’t sleep on the roadside on a night like this—at least, not with a portmanteau,” he pleaded.