"Why does the boy not speak?" inquired Paul, considerably puzzled by
what he had seen.
"Because he is dumb," answered the girl, leading the way up to the
door.
Paul carried his luggage into the porch where he saw that Dorothy's
eyes were fixed upon him with that strange quizzo-critical gaze,
with lids half closed and head tilted, which he had observed once
before, and which he could not help thinking gave her a very
aristocratic bearing.
"You should carry one of those long-handled lorgnettes," he
suggested, "when you look that way."
"And why?" she asked quite innocently.
"To look at me with," answered Henley, hoping to induce a smile, or a
more cheery tone amid a gloom which was growing oppressive. But Miss
Guir simply led the way to the great hall door, which was built of
heavy timber, and studded with nail-heads without. As the cumbersome
old portal swung open, Paul could not help observing that it was at
least two inches thick, braced diagonally, and that the locks and
hinges were unusually crude and massive. He followed Miss Guir into
the hall, with a slight foreboding of evil which the memory of the
stage driver's remark did not help to dispel.