After dinner they huddled all four together in the same room. They could
not lock themselves in, because Lydia had removed all the keys.
They whispered together a good deal, running up and down the scale from
apathy to indignation. They had even moments of curiosity, when they
ferreted among the hotch-potch of things they found stuffed away in the
cupboards and drawers, and under the bed; and speculated marvelling on
the queerness of Alice’s existence among these things: forty years of
masquerade! But for the most part they sat gloomy, or wandered aimlessly
about the room, dwelling in their own minds upon their several
apprehensions. Bertie’s wife said, “It’s all so vague—only hints, so to
speak,” and a background of shadows leapt into being.
Steps prowled past in the passage; they prowled up and down. The four in
the room looked at one another. There was a faint cry outside, and a
laugh.
“Two people, or one?” they whispered.
There was no telling how many people the house might conceal. The
resources of the shop alone could transform Lydia into a hundred
different characters. She would change her personality with each one.
They could not contemplate this idea. It credited her with uncanny
powers. Their imaginations, which had never in their lives been set to
work before, now gaped, pits full of possibilities.
They peeped and were afraid.
Towards four o’clock it grew dark and they lit the gas, but after an
hour or so it suddenly went out. They could not find any matches,
hunting round in the dark. “Is there no light?” said their voices.
Somebody found the door, opened it, and fled out: it was Fred. They
heard him running down the passage, and his steps upon the stair. He
would get down into the shop; he must look after himself. They sat down
in the dark, pressed together to listen and to wait.