It was a dark night, the moon obscured as yet by a wrack of flying
cloud, for a wind was abroad, a rising wind that blew in fitful gusts;
a boisterous, blustering, bullying wind that met the traveller at
sudden corners to choke and buffet him and so was gone, roaring away
among roofs and chimneys, rattling windows and lattices,
extinguishing flickering lamps, and filling the dark with stir and
tumult.
But Barnabas strode on heedless and deaf to it all. Headlong he went,
his cloak fluttering, his head stooped low, hearing nothing, seeing
nothing, taking no thought of time or direction, or of his ruined
career, since none of these were in his mind, but only the words of
Cleone's letter.
And slowly a great anger came upon him with a cold and bitter scorn
of her that cast out sorrow; thus, as he went, he laughed suddenly,
--a shrill laugh that rose above the howl of the wind, that grew
even wilder and louder until he was forced to stop and lean against
an iron railing close by.
"An Amateur Gentleman!" he gasped, "An Amateur Gentleman! Oh, fool!
fool!" And once again the fierce laughter shook him in its grip and,
passing, left him weak and breathless.
Through some rift in the clouds, the moon cast a fugitive beam and
thus he found himself looking down into a deep and narrow area where
a flight of damp, stone steps led down to a gloomy door; and beside
the door was a window, and the window was open.
Now as he gazed, the area, and the damp steps, and the gloomy door
all seemed familiar; therefore he stepped back, and gazing up, saw a
high, flat-fronted house, surely that same unlovely house at whose
brass-knockered front door Captain Slingsby of the Guards had once
stood and rapped with trembling hand.
The place was very silent, and very dark, save for one window where
burned a dim light, and, moved by sudden impulse, Barnabas strode
forward and, mounting the two steps, seized the knocker; but, even
as he did so the door moved. Slowly, slowly it opened, swinging back
on noiseless hinges, wider and wider until Barnabas could look into
the dimness of the unlighted hall beyond. Then, while he yet stood
hesitating, he heard a sound, very faint and sweet, like the chime
of fairy bells, and from the dark a face peered forth, a face drawn,
and lined, and ghastly pale, whose staring eyes were wide with horror.
"You!" said a voice, speaking in a harsh whisper, "is it you? Alas,
Barnaby Bright! what would you--here? Go away! Go away! Here is an
evil place, a place of sin, and horror, and blood--go away! go away!"
"But," said Barnabas, "I wish to see--"