I started up in feverish anxiety. It
was from the room beyond, and I stole toward the door to learn what it
might mean.
Again it came, but, strain as I might, I could not determine its cause.
What could be going on in the locked office? If two men were there was
it a personal encounter? If one man, was he doing violence upon
himself? Was the heart of the mystery to be found behind those doors if
I had the courage to throw them open? Burning with impatience, I thrust
aside the fears of the evil that might follow hasty action. I had drawn
the key and raised it once more to the slot, when I heard a step in the
middle room. I had but time to retreat to my desk when a key was fitted
in the lock, the door was flung open, and Doddridge Knapp stepped
calmly into the room.
"Ah, Wilton," said the King of the Street affably. "I was wondering if
I should find you here."
There was no trace of surprise or agitation in the face before me. If
this was the man whose prayers and groans and sobs had come to me
through the locked door, if he had wrestled with his conscience or even
had been the accusing conscience of another, his face was a mask that
showed no trace of the agony of thoughts that might contort the spirit
beneath it.
"I was attending to a little work of my own," I answered, after
greeting. If I felt much like a disconcerted pickpocket I was careful
to conceal the circumstance, and spoke with easy indifference. "You
have come back before I expected you," I continued carelessly.
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