“Yes,” he muttered, a note of rising excitement in his voice. “As I thought, as I thought. Come, gentlemen, let us hurry.”
He walked rapidly out of the garden, and up the steps, whilst we followed dumb with wonder—or such at any rate was the cause of my own silence.
In the hall Pedro was standing, a bunch of keys in his hand, and evidently expecting Harley.
“Will you take us by the shortest way to the tower stairs?” my friend directed.
“Yes, sir.”
Doubting, wondering, scarcely knowing whether to be fearful or jubilant, I followed, along a carpeted corridor, and thence, a heavy, oaken door being unlocked, across a dusty and deserted apartment apparently intended for a drawing room. From this, through a second doorway we were led into a small, square, unfurnished room, which I knew must be situated in the base of the tower. Yet a third door was unlocked, and:
“Here is the stair, sir,” said Pedro.
In Indian file we mounted to the first floor, to find ourselves in a second, identical room, also stripped of furniture and decorations. Harley barely glanced out of the northern window, shook his head, and:
“Next floor, Pedro,” he directed.
Up we went, our footsteps arousing a cloud of dust from the uncarpeted stairs, and the sound of our movements echoing in hollow fashion around the deserted rooms.