Just walk on past the _salle a manger_ to the garden, and wait
for me."
I expected exclamations, questions, indignant protests, anything but the
sudden white calm that fell on her at my request.
"You mean," she whispered, "that something dreadful has happened. Is it
about the--the men who came last night?"
"Yes. But please don't worry," I urged with false heartiness. "I'll
explain when you come down." To cut the discussion short, I turned to
go.
Once her door had closed, however, I halted at the staircase, retraced
my steps, and, without hesitation, circled the gallery to the rooms of
Mr. John Van Blarcom and his friends. I had had enough of uncertainties;
henceforth I meant to deal with facts. It was barely possible that I
was unjustly anathematizing these gentlemen, that, while they were
peacefully sleeping, thieves had broken in below.
Two knocks, the first rather tentative, the second brisker, netting no
response, I deliberately tried the knob and felt the door promptly yield
to me; then, with equal deliberation, I dropped my hand into my pocket
where my revolver lay.
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