On the second landing I rapped at the door of room Number 18, feeling considerable pleasure at the thought of giving my whilom friend an unwelcome surprise.
There was no reply, but I fancied I heard a movement inside. I listened eagerly.
I knocked again. Yes. I felt sure someone was within, but my knock met with no response.
A third time I knocked and more loudly, but to no avail. I tried the door—it was locked.
Five times I hammered with my fist, but there being no answer I descended the stairs and found Mr. Seton.
“But he must be up there if his door is locked,” he said. “He never takes his key but always leaves it on the peg here,” and he indicated a board on the wall in a little box-like room off the hall where visitors left their keys. To each key was attached a bulky ball of wood, in order that the key should not be carried away accidentally in the pocket.
With the landlord I reascended the stairs and Seton knocked at the door, calling his guest by name. But there was still no response.
“Do you know, I believe I heard somebody inside when I first knocked,” I remarked.
Seton bent and peered through the keyhole.
“At any rate the door is locked on the inside,” he said.