Then she disappeared into her own quarters. I could not understand what she meant; I was puzzling my brains to know who could possibly have called upon us, or what fresh disaster this might mean, when I became aware of a sudden change that had come over my companion. He was leaning against the wall, mouthing and shivering, and plucking at his lips, and staring towards the staircase. I looked back at him, and called—
"What's wrong with you? What are you afraid of?"
He came towards me, edging along the wall of the passage until he could lay his hand upon mine and grip me. "Didn't you hear what she said?" he whispered. "He's up there—waiting for us! Don't you understand, you fool, that he'd come quicker than we could; didn't you think of that?"
The sheer terror in the man's face unnerved me; I found myself gripping him, as if I, too, had suddenly grown afraid.
"What the devil do you mean?" I whispered. "It's some chance caller. Don't be a fool!"
I was shaken to my very soul; but I went on up the stairs, looking back, to find him following more slowly. I saw that he was ready, at a chance word or gesture, to go tumbling down the stairs again, and screaming out into the night. I hesitated for a moment at the door of the room, and opened it, and went in. Standing before the cheerless hearth was the man Dawkins.
I glanced over my shoulder, to see a ghastly face coming round the door—a face that changed in a moment from terror to relief—from relief to a sort of childish rage. Jervis Fanshawe came into the room a little blusteringly, and scowled at the visitor.
"What do you want here at this time of night?" he demanded. "Startling people—and making them think—— What do you want?"
Dawkins stared at this hitherto humble man in some amazement. "Don't be insolent," he said at last. "I want to find Murray Olivant."
"What do you want with him?" snapped Jervis Fanshawe, before I could say a word. "And why do you seek him here?"