So I went and sat in my uncle's drawing-room and waited.
The servant came with me and lit the candles, and remarked on the
weather, and handed me the _Saturday Review_ and _Punch_. I must have
looked quite natural--as I tried to look--and he left me.
I saw a Malay creese on the mantel-piece and hid it behind a
picture-frame. I locked a door leading to another drawing-room where
there was a grand piano, and above it a trophy of swords, daggers,
battle-axes, etc., and put the key in my pocket.
The key of the room where I waited was inside the door.
All this time I had a vague idea of possible violence on his part, but
no idea of killing him. I felt far too strong for that. Indeed, I had a
feeling of quiet, irresistible strength--the result of suppressed
excitement.
I sat down and meditated all I would say. I had settled it over and over
again, and read and reread the fatal letter.
The servant came up with glasses and soda-water. I trembled lest he
should observe that the door to the other room was locked, but he did
not. He opened the window and looked up and down the street. Presently
he said, "Here's the colonel at last, sir," and went down to open
the door.
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