Part 12 (1/2)
”Did you enter _all_ the rooms?” he asked, with the same intent gaze.
”Well, all that I could enter.”
”Oh, then you _did_ notice it!” said he, and he shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who makes the best of a bad job.
”Notice, what?”
”Why, the door with the seal on it.”
”Yes, I did.”
”Weren't you curious to know what was in it?”
”Well, it did strike me as unusual.”
”Do you think you could go on living alone in this house, year after year, just longing all the time to know what is at the other side of that door, and yet not looking?”
”Do you mean to say,” I cried, ”that you don't know yourself?”
”No more than you do.”
”Then why don't you look?”
”I mustn't,” said he.
He spoke in a constrained way, and I saw that I had blundered on to some delicate ground. I don't know that I am more inquisitive than my neighbours, but there certainly was something in the situation which appealed very strongly to my curiosity. However, my last excuse for remaining in the house was gone now that my companion had recovered his senses. I rose to go.
”Are you in a hurry?” he asked.
”No; I have nothing to do.”
”Well, I should be very glad if you would stay with me a little. The fact is that I live a very retired and secluded life here. I don't suppose there is a man in London who leads such a life as I do. It is quite unusual for me to have any one to talk with.”
I looked round at the little room, scantily furnished, with a sofa-bed at one side. Then I thought of the great, bare house, and the sinister door with the discoloured red seal upon it. There was something queer and grotesque in the situation, which made me long to know a little more. Perhaps I should, if I waited. I told him that I should be very happy.
”You will find the spirits and a siphon upon the side table. You must forgive me if I cannot act as host, but I can't get across the room.
Those are cigars in the tray there. I'll take one myself, I think. And so you are a solicitor, Mr. Alder?”
”Yes.”
”And I am nothing. I am that most helpless of living creatures, the son of a millionaire. I was brought up with the expectation of great wealth; and here I am, a poor man, without any profession at all. And then, on the top of it all, I am left with this great mansion on my hands, which I cannot possibly keep up. Isn't it an absurd situation? For me to use this as my dwelling is like a coster drawing his barrow with a thoroughbred. A donkey would be more useful to him, and a cottage to me.”
”But why not sell the house?” I asked.
”I mustn't.”
”Let it, then?”
”No, I mustn't do that either.”