cape the lodger was wearing, and, to Bunting’s surprise, the stretch of cloth against which his hand lay for a moment was not only damp, damp may-be from stray flakes of snow which had settled upon it, but wet—wet and gluey.
Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other that he placed the key in the lock of the door.
The two men passed into the hall together.
The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up road outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by the lodger, there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of mortal terror, an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightful immediate danger.
A stuffless voice—the voice of his first wife, the long-dead girl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays—uttered into his ear the words, "Take care!"
And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, though not loud.
"I’m afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, foul, on my coat? It’s too long a story to tell you now, but I brushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose Hill."
"No, sir, no. I didn’t notice nothing. I scarcely touched you, sir."
It seemed as if a power outside himself compelled Bunting to utter these lying words. "And now, sir, I’ll be saying good-night to you," he said.
Stepping back he pressed with all the strength that was in him against the wall, and let the other pass him.
