If he had followed his instinct, he would have turned
and fled into the night, away from that damp and silent house,
away from the ceaseless splashing of waters, back to the warmth
and lights of civilization. But his sense of humor, which is very
often better than courage, came to his rescue.
"I suppose I ought to be in the devil of a rage," he said to
himself, "being kept waiting like this outside my own house!
Where the deuce is my housekeeper? By Gad, I'll ring the place
down!"
The conceit amused him, and he advanced further into the musty
porch hoping to find a bell. But as he did so his ear caught the
distant sound of shuffling feet. The shuffle of feet drew nearer
and presently a beam of light shone out from under the door. A
quavering voice called out:
"Here I am, Mr. Bellward, here I am, sir!"
Then a bolt was drawn back, a key turned, and the door swung
slowly back, revealing an old woman, swathed in a long shawl and
holding high in her hand a lamp as she peered out into the
darkness.
"Good evening, Martha," said Desmond, and stepped into the house.
Save for Martha's lamp, the lobby was in darkness, but light was
streaming into the hall from the half open door of a room leading
off it at the far end. While Martha, wheezing asthmatically,
bolted the front door, Desmond went towards the room where the
light was and walked in.
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