He had held that Carthew's views were warped by a
peculiar experience. He now saw that they were not warped at all, but
shapely, sane and incontrovertible.
II
That evening, soon after dark, the Eagle, dusty and unkempt from a
journey which had not been free from mishaps, rolled up to the
front-door of Mr. Prohack's original modest residence behind Hyde Park;
and Mr. Prohack jumped out; and Carthew came after him with two bags.
The house was as dark as the owner's soul; not a gleam of light in any
window. Mr. Prohack produced his familiar latch-key, scraped round the
edge of the key-hole, savagely pushed in the key, and opened the door.
There was still no light nor sign of life. Mr. Prohack paused on the
threshold, and then his hand instinctively sought the electric switch
and pulled it down. No responsive gleam!
"Machin!" called Mr. Prohack, as it were plaintively.
No sound.
"I am a fool," thought Mr. Prohack.
He struck a match and walked forward delicately, peering. He descried an
empty portmanteau lying on the stairs. He shoved against the dining-room
door, which was ajar, and lit another match, and started back. The
dining-room was full of ghosts, furniture sheeted in dust-sheets; and a
newspaper had been made into a cap over his favourite Chippendale clock.
He retreated.
"Put those bags into the car again," he said to Carthew, who stood
hesitant on the vague whiteness of the front-step.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313