It was nearly half an hour later when another bell rang, this time the bell of the front door; but again no answer came to the imperative summons. And now the bell rang on, so continuously, so persistently, that at last its sound penetrated the dulled hearing of the man who huddled in a corner of the big couch, mind and body alike dazed and incapable of making any effort to understand the meaning of this oddly insistent noise.
He was only conscious of a desire for it to cease; of a longing, not sufficiently vivid to be acute, but the strongest emotion of which he was at the moment capable, for a return to the silence which had hitherto prevailed; and although the noise disturbed and angered him it never occurred to him that to answer the summons would be the best way of ending the irritating sound.
So that bell too went unanswered; and in due course it also ceased to ring.
But that was not to be the end.
Dimly he heard the sound of voices, of footsteps in the hall, of the striking of a match and the hissing of the gas. Then there was a confused noise which was like and yet unlike a rapping on the panels of the door of the room in which he sat; but he felt no inclination whatever to move or make any response; and even when at length the door itself opened, slowly and tentatively, he merely looked up with languid curiosity to see what these phenomena might imply.
* * * * *
And in the doorway stood Iris Wayne, her face very pale, one hand holding a flimsy scarf about her, with Bruce Cheniston by her side.