"Door on the left," said the injured one.
Fenn led him down the passage and into a small sitting-room. The gas
was lit, and as he turned it up he saw that the stranger was a man
well advanced in years. He had grey hair that was almost white. His
face was not a pleasant one. It was a mass of lines and wrinkles from
which a physiognomist would have deduced uncomplimentary conclusions
as to his character. Fenn had little skill in that way, but he felt
that for some reason he disliked the man, whose eyes, which were small
and extraordinarily bright, gave rather an eerie look to his face.
"Go away, go away," he kept repeating savagely from his post on the
shabby sofa on which Fenn had deposited him.
"But are you all right? Can't I get you something?" asked the
Eckletonian.
"Go away, go away," repeated the man.
Conversation on these lines could never be really attractive. Fenn
turned to go. As he closed the door and began to feel his way along
the dark passage, he heard the key turn in the lock behind him. The
man could not, he felt, have been very badly hurt if he were able to
get across the room so quickly. The thought relieved him somewhat.
Nobody likes to have the maiming even of the most complete stranger on
his mind. The sensation of relief lasted possibly three seconds. Then
it flashed upon him that in the excitement of the late interview he
had forgotten his cap.
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