He inserted the key, turned it, but the door did not yield. To his surprise, he found that some exertion was necessary in order to open it. He forced it back and discovered that behind the door was another, covered with thick green baize.
“No wonder he didn’t hear the noise.”
Rendell entered, closing the doors behind him.
Darkness and silence.
He struck a match, then switched on the light. A stairway, flanked by white banisters and covered with thick carpet, was revealed. Rendell stood gazing at it for a moment, then slowly ascended.
On reaching the top he paused again. A broad passage faced him with three shut white doors, one on his right and two on his left. He had the odd sensation that everything was waiting for him.
Eventually he opened the door on his right, thereby discovering a bathroom, but not one which his experience at No. 77 had caused him to anticipate. Even by Rendell’s normal standards, it was rather luxurious.
“Does himself pretty well, evidently.”
He crossed to the room on the left near the top of the stairs.
It was the bedroom. Rendell glanced round, noting the perfection of its simplicity, then went through the communicating door into the study and switched on the lights.
A whistle of amazement escaped him.
It was a low oblong room, the walls of which were covered with bookcases. Near the window was a writing-desk on which stood a curiously-shaped green idol. Parchment-coloured curtains hanging in deep folds obliterated the outside world. Concealed lighting dimly illuminated the room.
But what had occasioned Renders amazement was not the room’s contents, but its atmosphere. It was impossible to believe he was in 77, Potiphar Street. He stood motionless, listening to the silence. Somehow this silence was not the mere absence of sound. It was not explained by the material facts of the double windows and the thick pile close-fitting carpet. This silence was alive. Rendell began to believe that the real furniture of a room is the thoughts and emotions of its occupant. This silence disturbed him. It made him feel an interloper, yet, simultaneously, it claimed him.
He looked round. Four large waste-paper-baskets, piled high with unopened letters, were ranged by the wall near the door. On a little table an open book lay face downwards. Under it was a cutting from a newspaper.
So it was here Trent had written his books.
He went to the writing-desk, then stood looking down at it. Nearly five minutes passed. At last he crossed to the fireplace, switched on the electric fire, then stood with his back to it, as if anxious to have the whole room in view.
Gradually he became aware of an intensity in the atmosphere which affected him unpleasantly. It raised his thoughts to a new vibration, quickened his sense of personality—yet, simultaneously, seemed to rob him of it.
“I’m not staying here for my last week, Mr. Trent.”
But the sound of his own voice jarred. Then, feeling that he must create contact with the familiar, he went to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out.
Lights gleamed and flashed on the turbulent river. A tram glided over Battersea Bridge. A naked tree writhed under the lash of the wind. But no sound rose to him. He felt like a deaf man looking at the world.
He was about to return to the fire, then, changing his mind, he went again to the writing-desk and stood looking down at it fascinated. Then, scarcely aware of what he was doing, he tried the top drawer on the right.
It yielded, and a pile of manuscript paper was revealed—on which was a sealed envelope, addressed to A. Rendell, Esq.
He picked it up and read his own name a dozen times in order to convince himself of its reality.
So this was why Trent had written that P.S. He wanted him to come to this room—and find this letter!
He slit open the envelope and read:
The letter fell from Rendell’s hand.
Overheard his conversation with Marsden that Sunday! . . . Why, the place was empty! . . . There was a hell of a fog and . . .
He picked up the letter and read on.