From behind the closed door across the hall came, very faintly, that floating, silvery voice.
Sir Robert's room was in confusion. He had drawn his leather steamer trunk to the center of the room, opened it, and placed the tray across an arm-chair that stood by the head of the bed. The bed was covered with shirts, underwear, collars, books and papers in disorderly heaps. Shoes littered the floor. His evening clothes were laid out on the table, other suits across a chair.
On the edge of the bed, amid the disorder, sat Sir Robert. He was in his shirt sleeves. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his white hair rumpled so that it stuck up grotesquely over his ears.
“Well, well,” said I. “Is n't this unexpected?” He looked up.
His face never had any color to speak of, but now it was a pasty gray. His eyes were sunken, but with a curious sparkle in them. He said nothing, just stared at me.
“Well,” I repeated, “are you leaving?”
Still he merely stared at me. It was unpleasant. I felt my assurance fading out, and stood stupidly there, unable to think of anything further to say. “He's here!” whispered Sir Robert then.
“Who—who—” My nerves were tightening. The left side of his face twitched.
I heard myself saying—“But that's impossible. He would n't be here yet.”
Sir Robert dropped his eyes now. I was glad of this. They made me extremely uncomfortable. He began packing his shirts in the tray of his trunk.