The low-pitched voices of men sounded ominously within, but the door was not opened.
He waited fully five minutes, listening attentively the while; he clearly heard a sound which was suspiciously like the despairing cry of a woman.
Then he knocked loudly again.
Dudley Chisholm was by no means a timid man. A dozen times he had faced death during his erratic wanderings in the almost unknown regions of the far east. He was of the type of athletic Englishman that prefers the fist as a weapon at close quarters to any knife or revolver. That whispering within, however, unnerved him; while the woman’s ejaculation was also distinctly uncanny. The cabman was awaiting him, it was true, and could be relied upon to raise an alarm if there should be any attempt at foul play. The remembrance of this, to a certain degree, reassured him.
He had come there in obedience to the orders of the woman who held his future in her hands, but he did not like the situation in the least.
His second summons was answered tardily by an old woman, withered and bent, who came shuffling down the little hall grumbling to herself, and who, on throwing open the door, inquired what he wanted.
“I think I am expected here,” was all he could reply, handing her the card which the Italian had given him.
The old hag took it in her claw-like fingers and examined it suspiciously.
“Are you Mr Chisholm?” she inquired.
Dudley nodded in the affirmative.