At that she drew slightly aside.
“He’s upstairs,” she said in a cracked voice that was little more than a whisper. “I can’t show you up. Hain’t been up a stair now in ten year.”
“That’s all right,” I replied, and, seizing my suitcase, I strode down the long hall.
“At the head of the steps,” came the whispering voice behind me. “The door at the end of the hall.”
I climbed the cold dark stairway, passed along the short hall at the top, and stood before a closed door. I knocked.
“Come in.” It was Arthur’s voice, and yet—not his.
I opened the door and saw Arthur sitting on a couch, his shoulders hunched over, his eyes raised to mine.
After all, ten years had not changed him so much. As I remembered him, he was of medium height, inclined to be stout, and ruddy-faced with keen gray eyes. He was still stout, but had lost his color, and his eyes had dulled.
“And where have you been all this time?” I demanded, when the first greetings were over.
“Here,” he answered.