“Neither do I, sir, strictly between ourselves,” replied Thomasson quite frankly. “He’s been here quite a lot lately. His wife consulted the master about three months ago, and that’s how they first met, I believe. But can’t you get in?”
“No. Curious, isn’t it?”
“Very. The doctor never locks his door in the usual way,” Thomasson said, ascending the stairs with Sainsbury, and himself trying the handle.
He knocked loudly, asking—
“Are you in there, sir?” But still no response was given.
“I can’t make this out, Mr Sainsbury,” exclaimed the man, turning to him with anxiety on his pale face. “The key’s in the lock—on the inside too! He must be inside, and he’s locked himself in. Why, I wonder?”
Jack Sainsbury bent and put his eye to the keyhole. The room within was lit, for he could see the well-filled bookcase straight before him, and an empty chair was plainly visible.
Instantly he listened, for he thought in the silence—at that moment there being an absence of traffic out in the street—that he heard a slight sound, as though of a low, metallic click.
Again he listened, holding his breath. He was not mistaken. A slight but quite distinct sharp click could be heard, as though a piece of metal had struck the window-pane. Once—twice—it was repeated, afterwards a long-drawn sigh.
Then he heard no more.