The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Arrived at his habitation, Jonathan knocked in a peculiar manner at the door, which was instantly opened by the grim-visaged porter just alluded to. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. You would suffer the torments of the damned for what you had done. But he has since acquitted you of any share in it. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. It must be somewhere hereabouts. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. She was wan and white.
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