Taking a candlestick from a dirty
marble-topped slab that projected from the passage-wall, he struck a
match, lit the candle, and preceded them up the narrow flight of stairs,
his boots creaking loudly at every step. On the landing at the top a
smart maid-servant with a very pale face reconnoitered the party for
a moment with furtive curiosity, then flitted away in the darkness to
the upper regions of the house.
The landlord paused by a door numbered with a black number.
"He is in here," he whispered hoarsely. "Tomorrow they sit on him. After
that he go from me. Mon Dieu! I am glad when he is gone. My custom he
is spoilt. My house get a bad name, and like a dog they hang him. Mon
Dieu!"
He opened the door stealthily, forming "St!" with his fat, coarse lips.
"I light the gas. It is all dark."
"No, no," Julian said, taking the candle from him, "I will do that. Go
down."
He motioned him away, and entered the room, followed by Valentine, at
whom the landlord again stared with a greedy consideration and curiosity,
before turning to retreat softly down the narrow stairs.
They found themselves in a good-sized room, typically of London. It was
full of the peculiar and unmistakable metropolitan smell, a stale odor
of the streets that suggests smuts to the mind.
Pages:
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179