Walter nodded. ‘Didn’t you hear me call?’ he asked.
‘Not me. When?’
‘Not five minutes ago.’
‘How could I? I was among the chimneys.’
‘Repairing the roof, Joe?’
‘Fixing the tiles,’ was the reply.
Having thus accounted for his tardiness, Joe Grimrood again scratched his cap, in his manner of saluting, and moved along the hall, in the semi-darkness, towards the front-door. ‘I wish you a very good-night,’ said the man, as Walter accompanied him to the entrance—‘a very good-night, sir; asking your pardon.’
Walter Tiltcroft closed the door, when the workman had gone out, with as little noise as possible; for he feared that if any sound reached Silas Monk in the strong-room, his suspicions might be aroused, and the chance of solving this mystery might be lost.
Again retiring to his retreat upon the staircase, Walter waited and watched; but nothing happened. The twilight faded; the night became so dark that the lad could not see his hand before him. The hours appeared long; at endless intervals he heard the city clocks striking in the dead silence. He filled up the time with thoughts containing a hundred conjectures. What could Silas Monk be doing all this while? A dozen times Walter descended to the door of the office to listen; but never a sound! A dozen times his fingers touched the handle to turn it; yet each time he drew back, fearing to destroy the object he had seriously in view—the solution of this strange affair.
Ten o’clock had struck, and the young clerk was growing weary of waiting for the clocks to strike eleven. He began to imagine that something must have happened to Silas Monk. Had he fallen asleep? Was he dead, or—what?