When she had thrown on her dressing gown and opened
the door he had instantly caught her by the shoulder, and she bore
the imprints of his fingers for days.
"Did you lock the kitchen door?" he demanded, his tones thick with
fury.
"Yes. Why not?" She tried to shake off his hand, but failed.
"None of your business why not," he said, and gave her an angry
shake. "Hereafter, when you find that door open, you leave it that
way. That's all."
"Take your hands off me!" She was rather like her grandfather at
that moment, and his lost caution came back. He freed her at once
and laughed a little.
"Sorry!" he said. "I get a bit emphatic at times. But there are
times when a locked door becomes a mighty serious matter."
The next day he removed the key from the door, and substituted a
bolt. Elinor made no protest.
Another night Elinor was taken ill, and Lilly had been forced to
knock at the study door and call Doyle. She had an instant's
impression of the room crowded with strange figures. The heavy
odors of sweating bodies, of tobacco, and of stale beer came through
the half-open door and revolted her. And Doyle had refused to go
upstairs.
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