So conscious was he that he got
up from his table and stood at the rain-swept window, looking out into
the orchard, as though he expected to see a sinister figure creeping,
stealthily, from behind the trees. In his thoughts of his father there was
no compunction, no accusing scruples of neglect, only a perfectly concrete,
active sense, in some vague way, of force pitted against force.
It might be summed up in the conviction that "the old man was not done with
him yet"--and as Peter turned back from the window, almost relieved that he
had, indeed, seen no creeping figure amongst the dark trees, he was aware
that never since the days of his starvation in Bucket Lane, had he been so
conscious of those threatening memories of Scaw House and its inhabitants.
At that, almost as he reached his table, there was a knock on his door.
"Come in," he cried and, scorning himself for his fears, faced the maid
with staring eyes.
"Two gentlemen to see you, sir," she said. "I have shown them into the
study."
"Is Mrs. Westcott in?"
"No, sir. She told me that she would not be back until six o'clock, sir."
"I will come down."
In the hall, hanging amongst the other things as a Pirate might hang beside
a company of Evangelist ministers, was Stephen Brant's hat....
As Peter's hand turned on the handle of the study door he knew that his
heart was beating with so furious a clamour that he could not hear the lock
turn.
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