Ronder climbed up the dirty dark staircase and knocked on the old
oak door that had upon it a dirty visiting card with Foster's name. When
he ceased his climb and the noise of his footsteps fell away there was a
great silence. Not a sound could be heard. The bells were not chiming, the
rooks were not cawing (it was not as yet their time) nor was the voice of
Mrs. Crumpleton to be heard, shrill and defiant, as was too often the
case. The house was dead; the town was dead; had the world itself suddenly
died, like a candle whose light is put out, Foster would not have cared.
Ronder knocked three times with the knob of his walking-stick. The man
must be out. He was about to turn away and go when the door suddenly
opened, as though by a secret life of its own, and the pale face and
untidy person of the Canon, like the apparition of a surprised and
indignant _revenant_, was apparent.
"May I come in for a moment?" said Ronder. "I won't keep you long."
Foster stared at his visitor, said nothing, opened the door a little
wider, and stood aside. Ronder accepted this as an invitation and came in.
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