If Lily were in that sinister darkened house
across the street, the family had probably retired. And for the
first time, too, he began to doubt if Doyle would let him see her.
Lily herself might even refuse to see him.
Nevertheless, the urgency to get her away from there, if she were
there, prevailed at last, and a strip of light in an upper window,
as from an imperfectly fitting blind, assured him that some one
was still awake in the house.
He went across the street and opening the gate, strode up the walk.
Almost immediately he was confronted by the figure of a man who had
been concealed by the trunk of one of the trees. He lounged
forward, huge, menacing, yet not entirely hostile.
"Who is it?" demanded the figure blocking his way.
"I want to see Mr. Doyle."
"What about?"
"I'll tell him that," said Willy Cameron.
"What's your name?"
"That's my business, too," said Mr. Cameron, with disarming
pleasantness.
"Damn private about your business, aren't you?" jeered the sentry,
still in cautious tones. "Well, you can write it down on a piece
of paper and mail it to him. He's busy now."
"All I want to do," persisted Mr. William Wallace Cameron, growing
slightly giddy with repressed fury, "is to ring that doorbell and
ask him a question.
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