The avenue being guarded by its long arch of tree-branches, the path was comparatively easy to traverse, and Coutts was soon in front of the house, which, like the church, was a shapeless white mass, broken by a few points of light. Underneath these few lights was dark shadow. As Coutts ascended the steps of the portico, a man stepped out from the shadow.
‘I want to speak to you a minute, Mr Coutts Hadleigh; I’ve been waiting all evening for you.’
Coutts was no coward, although his brain was somewhat muddy with wine; but this sudden apparition made him spring to the top of the steps and ring the bell, as he exclaimed fiercely:
‘Who are you, and what do you want with me at this hour?’
‘I want to know where is Pansy Culver?’ said the man with enforced calmness, which contrasted to his advantage with the blustering ire of the other.
‘Confound your impudence—how should I know?’
‘I saw you with her at the London station. Where has she gone to? Where did you send her to?’
‘She didn’t tell me where she was going to, and I didn’t send her anywhere.’
Caleb Kersey’s calmness broke bounds, and he next spoke with savage determination:
‘You are lying, and you shall tell me the truth.’