Garth whistled.
"Violence?"
"Not a sign. Coroner says apoplexy, but that doesn't convince anybody that doesn't want to be."
"Curious," Garth mused.
For some time a confused murmuring had increased in his ears—the persistent fury of water turned back by a rocky coast.
They turned through a gateway, and, across a broad lawn, he caught a glimpse of lights, dim, unreal, as one might picture will-o-the-wisps. But the night and the mist could not hide from Garth the size of the house, significant of wealth and a habit of comfort. That such an establishment should be practically bereft of service was sufficient proof that there was, indeed, something here to combat. Yet from the driver he could draw nothing more ponderable than the fancied return of the dead to their battlefield, and a distrust, natural enough in a native, of the horde of new men gathered for the furnaces.
When he had stepped from the carriage he saw that the lights were confined to the lower hall and one room to the left. The rest of the great house stretched away with an air of decay and abandonment.
In response to his ring he heard a step drag across the floor, but the door was not opened at once. Instead a quavering voice demanded his identity.
With some impatience Garth grasped the knob, and as he heard the carriage retreat towards the town, called out:
"My name is Garth. I'm expected."