My courage was small, but I summoned more to add to what I had. “I saw the door opened from the passageway. I tell you this inquiry has been overheard.”
I strode toward the door, while from behind me came the scrape of Crofts rising to his feet, and the rustle of the servants. Open that door I would, if the fourfold centenarian himself were waiting outside to do me mischief. But I believed, and would not have been sorry to discover, that the unknown visitant had by this time fled, and with this hope upholding me I gripped the handle-piece and jerked the portal open.
But no! A man stood in the corridor.
VIII.
Wager of Battel
Gilbert Maryvale!
“Oh, you!” exclaimed Pendleton, and appeared completely contented at once.
“Isn’t it awful?” asked Maryvale. “Isn’t it awful?”
Pendleton and I stared speechless at him; in me, at least, the old surprise had given place to new astonishment twice as strong. What was the matter with this man? The only light in the long windowless corridor came from a translucent electric globe far at the foot of the stairs, but even in the vaguely illuminated passage I realized that something had happened to Maryvale.
“I saw the boy coming by the drive, and I thought he might—there might be some news of Sir Brooke at last. The doctor is telling some powerful things. I’ve been in and out of there twice. I always—I thought I’d better get away . . . came to see if the boy had . . .”
“One question, Mr. Maryvale,” I said quickly. “Were you in the corridor a while ago tapping the wall with something?”