There was a certain gladness, a perceptible bustle in the air, however, which I thought slightly anomalous in a house where a great author lay critically ill.

"Le roy est mort--vive le roy": I was reminded that another great author had already stepped into his shoes.

When I came down again after the nurse had taken possession I found a strange gentleman hanging about the hall and pacing to and fro by the closed door of the drawing-room.
This personage was florid and bald; he had a big red moustache and wore showy knickerbockers--characteristics all that fitted to my conception of the identity of Dora Forbes.

In a moment I saw what had happened: the author of "The Other Way Round" had just alighted at the portals of Prestidge, but had suffered a scruple to restrain him from penetrating further.

I recognised his scruple when, pausing to listen at his gesture of caution, I heard a shrill voice lifted in a sort of rhythmic uncanny chant.