It was a servantless period.  But there was a light in the servants’ living-room, and the red comforting glow of a fire.  The bailiff lived there.  Robert could hear him shuffling his feet in the fender, and sniffing and clearing his throat as though the silence bothered him, and he were trying to make himself at home.  For a moment Robert longed to go in and sit beside him, not saying anything, but just basking in the quiet warmth, protected by the presence of the Law which seemed so astonishingly tolerant in the matter of the Stonehouse shortcomings.  For the bailiff was a good-natured man.  He had endeavoured to make it clear to Robert from the beginning, by means of sundry winks and smiles, that he understood the whole situation, which was one in which any gentleman might find himself, and that he meant to act like a friend.  But Robert had only scowled at him.  And even now, frightened as he was, he disdained all parley.  The bailiff was an enemy, and when it came to a fight the Stonehouse family stood shoulder to shoulder.  So he crept past the cheerful light like a hunted mouse, and up the stairs to the green-baize door, which shut off the kitchen from the library and dining-room.

It was an important door.  Dr. Stonehouse had had it made specially to muffle sounds from the servants’ quarters whilst he was working.  He had never worked, and there had been very rarely any servants to disturb him, but the door remained invested with a kind of solemnity.  Among other virtues it opened at a touch, itself noiseless.

To Robert it was the veritable entrance to the dragon’s cave.  On one side of it everything was dim and quiet.  And then it swung back, and you fell through into the dragon’s clutches.  You heard the awful roar, and your heart fainted within you,

He fell over the top step.  He felt he was going to be sick again.  It was the old, familiar sound.  He had heard it so often, it was so much part of his daily life that it ought not to have frightened him.  But it was always new, always more terrifying.  Each time it had new notes of incalculable menace.  It was like a brutal hammer, crashing down on bruised flesh and shrinking, quivering nerves, never quite killing you, but with each blow leaving you less capable of endurance.

His father, Christine and Edith were in the dining-room.  Robert knew they were all there, though he could not see them.  The dining-room door at the end of the unlit passage stood half open, showing the handsome mahogany sideboard and the two Chippendale chairs on either side guarding it like lions.  They had a curious tense, still look, as though what they saw in the hidden side of the room struck them stiff with astonishment and horror.

Dr. Stonehouse was speaking.  His voice was so low-pitched that Robert could not hear what he said.  It was like the murderous, meaningless growling of a mad dog; every now and then it seemed to break free—­to explode into a shattering roar—­and then with a frightful effort to be dragged back, held down, in order that it might leap out again with a redoubled violence.  It was punctuated by the sharp, spiteful smack of a fist brought down into the open hand.