Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. The man himself was not a pleasant object. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. But he had been forewarned by his great-nephew. On beholding the intruders, his fears changed to exultation, and he uttered a roar of satisfaction as he glared at them, which could only be likened to the cry of some savage denizen of the plains. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat. I am a man—of a sort of experience.
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