DINNER AT FERNLY
The letter had been brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering if there was anything I had left undone. I could think of nothing. With a shake of the head I passed out and closed the door behind me.
I was startled by seeing the figure of Parker close at hand. He looked embarrassed, and it occurred to me that he might have been listening at the door.
What a fat, smug, oily face the man had, and surely there was something decidedly shifty in his eye.
"Mr. Ackroyd particularly does not want to be disturbed," I said coldly. "He told me to tell you so."
"Quite so, sir. I—I fancied I heard the bell ring."
This was such a palpable untruth that I did not trouble to reply. Preceding me to the hall, Parker helped me on with my overcoat, and I stepped out into the night. The moon was overcast and everything seemed very dark and still. The village church clock chimed nine o'clock as I passed through the lodge gates. I turned to the left towards the village, and almost cannoned into a man coming in the opposite direction.
"This the way to Fernly Park, mister?" asked the stranger in a hoarse voice.
I looked at him. He was wearing a hat pulled down over his eyes, and his coat collar turned up. I could see little or nothing of his face, but he seemed a young fellow. The voice was rough and uneducated.
"These are the lodge gates here," I said.
[47]
