Why, when he had heard Mrs Holt
screaming "murder," he had cowered under the bed clothes and waited,
expecting to hear the blood dripping through the ceiling on to his own
floor. His imagination translated every sound into a pat, pat, pat, and
once or twice he thought he had felt it dropping on to his counterpane,
but he had never gone upstairs to try and rescue poor Mrs Holt. Happily
it had proved next morning that Mrs Holt was in her usual health.
Ernest was in despair about hitting on any good way of opening up
spiritual communication with his neighbour, when it occurred to him that
he had better perhaps begin by going upstairs, and knocking very gently
at Mr Holt's door. He would then resign himself to the guidance of the
Holy Spirit, and act as the occasion, which, I suppose, was another name
for the Holy Spirit, suggested. Triply armed with this reflection, he
mounted the stairs quite jauntily, and was about to knock when he heard
Holt's voice inside swearing savagely at his wife. This made him pause
to think whether after all the moment was an auspicious one, and while he
was thus pausing, Mr Holt, who had heard that someone was on the stairs,
opened the door and put his head out.
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