“It was a queer little room, poorly furnished and with a number of big
masks in the corner. On the table was his belated breakfast, and it was
a confoundedly exasperating thing for me, Kemp, to have to sniff his
coffee and stand watching while he came in and resumed his meal. And
his table manners were irritating. Three doors opened into the little
room, one going upstairs and one down, but they were all shut. I could
not get out of the room while he was there; I could scarcely move
because of his alertness, and there was a draught down my back. Twice I
strangled a sneeze just in time.
“The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but
for all that I was heartily tired and angry long before he had done his
eating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly crockery on
the black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and gathering all
the crumbs up on the mustard stained cloth, he took the whole lot of
things after him. His burden prevented his shutting the door behind
him—as he would have done; I never saw such a man for shutting
doors—and I followed him into a very dirty underground kitchen and
scullery. I had the pleasure of seeing him begin to wash up, and then,
finding no good in keeping down there, and the brick floor being cold
on my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his chair by the fire. It
was burning low, and scarcely thinking, I put on a little coal. The
noise of this brought him up at once, and he stood aglare. He peered
about the room and was within an ace of touching me. Even after that
examination, he scarcely seemed satisfied. He stopped in the doorway
and took a final inspection before he went down.
“I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up and
opened the upstairs door. I just managed to get by him.
“On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly blundered
into him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening. ‘I
could have sworn,’ he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower
lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went
on up again.
“His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with
the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint
sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically
acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage. ‘If there’s anyone in
this house—’ he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He
put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing
past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did
not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return.
“Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the
room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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