The landlord darted him a look of suspicion.
“I dunno nothin’ about that. I ’ad no dealings with this one,” he said and kicked the fire savagely.
Without another word he finished his drink and departed.
Fletcher could not sleep; either the wind or the problem kept him awake. At last he rose and went to the table for matches; he would read, but at the window he paused. The curtains did not meet, and through the crack he could see a faint light in the roadway outside. He gently drew it back, and below he could dimly make out a muffled figure standing by the door, holding a ship’s lantern.
The door opened cautiously as he watched and another figure in oilskins came out whom he had no difficulty in recognising as the landlord.
Without a word they turned and went into the night.
Fletcher waited. What should he do? He had not come prepared for midnight expeditions in the rain, and it was a wild night. At last his sense of adventure got the better of him, and hastily dressing, he slipped downstairs, and seized his greatcoat from the peg in the hall.
As he approached the front door, a voice called over the bannisters.
“Who’s there?”
“It is only I … Mr. Fletcher,” said he, feeling a fool.