destroyed had now respun its web across the door.
âMight be misleading, in some cases,â Bobby told himself. âEasy to think a web like that has been in position much longer than it has in reality.â
In spite of his expectation the door remained closed, no fresh terror-stricken fugitive made any new appearance, and Bobby was in the act of turning away when some impulse he hardly understood, but that was, in fact, a proof of the extraordinary fascination the place exercised upon him, made him go to the door and knock.
There was no answer. He knocked again, and yet once more, and still there came no reply.
It might have been a house of the dead for all the answer that he got.
He could not help feeling a little disappointed. What he had expected he hardly knew, but certainly some development of some kind or another, not this blank unbroken silence.
âA house of the dead, it might be,â he muttered half aloud, as he turned away after a final, and again unanswered, hammering with the knocker.
Then he reflected that perhaps it was just as well no one had answered his summons, as he would have a difficulty in explaining what he wanted. He supposed he would have had to say he was selling vacuum cleaners or something of the sort. And then, after all, for many years past apparently, every knock upon that closed door had been ignored, just as his had been.
But he felt the thing was getting an obsession with him and he must stop thinking about it, and in this wise resolution he was confirmed when he observed a neighbour at a window of the house next door watching him with great interest and attention. Very likely she had seen him before in the company of Sergeant Wild, and would guess, therefore, that he was connected with the police. Only the good Lord knew what trail of gossip might now be started.
The last time, Bobby told himself with emphasis, Tudor Lodge was going to see him, or very likely some complaint would be coming in about police interference and spying.
So far as he was concerned the thing was done with. People might go running in and out of the house in all the stages of panic and terror they liked. It was no affair of his, Bobby repeated in his thoughts, and he wasnât going to run the risk of being asked by his superiors why he had been poking in his nose where it had no official business, and if there wasnât trouble enough in the world already for a harassed C.I.D. without going looking for more? So, turning his back resolutely on Tudor Lodge and its unsolved problems, off he went at his best pace, without once looking back, but well aware all the time of the neighbourâs eyes following him with intense and eager interest till he was out of sight. â
As he had been rather longer away than he had intended, he took a bus back to the Yard. He was entering the building when he saw his chief, Superintendent Mitchell, approaching, and stood aside to allow him to enter first.
âAh, Owen,â Mitchell said pleasantly. âNice weather weâre having... I thought it looked a bit like rain though, so I brought my new umbrella along.â
As he spoke he swung forward, carelessly, an umbrella he was carrying; an expensive, brand-new, gold-mounted, silk umbrella that, with eyes fairly popping out of his head, Bobby recognised as his own â the one he had last seen when he had also last seen Con Conway.
âAh,â said Mitchell, âadmiring my new umbrella, I see â not bad, is it?â
Bobby, quite unable to speak, gurgled some inarticulate response.
âYouâre wondering,â observed Mitchell, in his most thoughtful tones, âhow, in these days of cuts and income-tax and breakfast bacon costing the eyes out of your head, a poor devil of an overworked underpaid super can afford a swell umbrella like this?â
âYes, sir,â said Bobby faintly.
âOf course, really,â explained Mitchell, âitâs to impress the
âMight be misleading, in some cases,â Bobby told himself. âEasy to think a web like that has been in position much longer than it has in reality.â
In spite of his expectation the door remained closed, no fresh terror-stricken fugitive made any new appearance, and Bobby was in the act of turning away when some impulse he hardly understood, but that was, in fact, a proof of the extraordinary fascination the place exercised upon him, made him go to the door and knock.
There was no answer. He knocked again, and yet once more, and still there came no reply.
It might have been a house of the dead for all the answer that he got.
He could not help feeling a little disappointed. What he had expected he hardly knew, but certainly some development of some kind or another, not this blank unbroken silence.
âA house of the dead, it might be,â he muttered half aloud, as he turned away after a final, and again unanswered, hammering with the knocker.
Then he reflected that perhaps it was just as well no one had answered his summons, as he would have a difficulty in explaining what he wanted. He supposed he would have had to say he was selling vacuum cleaners or something of the sort. And then, after all, for many years past apparently, every knock upon that closed door had been ignored, just as his had been.
But he felt the thing was getting an obsession with him and he must stop thinking about it, and in this wise resolution he was confirmed when he observed a neighbour at a window of the house next door watching him with great interest and attention. Very likely she had seen him before in the company of Sergeant Wild, and would guess, therefore, that he was connected with the police. Only the good Lord knew what trail of gossip might now be started.
The last time, Bobby told himself with emphasis, Tudor Lodge was going to see him, or very likely some complaint would be coming in about police interference and spying.
So far as he was concerned the thing was done with. People might go running in and out of the house in all the stages of panic and terror they liked. It was no affair of his, Bobby repeated in his thoughts, and he wasnât going to run the risk of being asked by his superiors why he had been poking in his nose where it had no official business, and if there wasnât trouble enough in the world already for a harassed C.I.D. without going looking for more? So, turning his back resolutely on Tudor Lodge and its unsolved problems, off he went at his best pace, without once looking back, but well aware all the time of the neighbourâs eyes following him with intense and eager interest till he was out of sight. â
As he had been rather longer away than he had intended, he took a bus back to the Yard. He was entering the building when he saw his chief, Superintendent Mitchell, approaching, and stood aside to allow him to enter first.
âAh, Owen,â Mitchell said pleasantly. âNice weather weâre having... I thought it looked a bit like rain though, so I brought my new umbrella along.â
As he spoke he swung forward, carelessly, an umbrella he was carrying; an expensive, brand-new, gold-mounted, silk umbrella that, with eyes fairly popping out of his head, Bobby recognised as his own â the one he had last seen when he had also last seen Con Conway.
âAh,â said Mitchell, âadmiring my new umbrella, I see â not bad, is it?â
Bobby, quite unable to speak, gurgled some inarticulate response.
âYouâre wondering,â observed Mitchell, in his most thoughtful tones, âhow, in these days of cuts and income-tax and breakfast bacon costing the eyes out of your head, a poor devil of an overworked underpaid super can afford a swell umbrella like this?â
âYes, sir,â said Bobby faintly.
âOf course, really,â explained Mitchell, âitâs to impress the
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