"There is one of your friends," I said, "who is still undismayed.
Thorndyke seems to anticipate no difficulties."
"And yet," she replied, "he is ready to consider a forlorn hope like
this. However, we shall see."
I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silence that
we pursued our way down Inner Temple Lane and through the dark entries
and tunnel-like passages that brought us out, at length, by the
Treasury.
"I don't see any light in Thorndyke's chambers," I said, as we crossed
King's Bench Walk; and I pointed out the row of windows all dark and
blank.
"No: and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out."
"He can't be after making an appointment with you and your father. It is
most mysterious. Thorndyke is so very punctilious about his
engagements."
The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing, by a slip of paper
fixed by a tack on the iron-bound "oak."
"A note for P.B. is on the table," was the laconic message: on reading
which I inserted my key, swung the heavy door outward, and opened the
lighter inner door.
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