He led
the way up the stairs.
Maggie had read in some old bound volume at home a very gruesome
account of the "Life and Misdeeds of Mr. Palmer, the Rugeley
Poisoner." The impression that still remained with her was of a man
standing in the shadowy hall of just such an hotel as this, and
pouring poison into a glass which he held up against the light. This
picture had been vividly with her during her childhood, and she felt
that this must have been the very hotel where those fearful deeds
occurred, and that the ghost of Mr. Palmer's friend must, at this
very moment, be writhing in an upstairs bedroom--"writhing," as she
so fearfully remembered, bent "like a hoop."
However, these reminiscences did not in the least terrify her; she
welcomed their definite outlines in contrast with the shadowy
possibilities of her aunts' house. And she had Martin Warlock . . .
She had never been so happy in all her life.
A dismal little waiter with a very soiled shirt and a black tie
under his ear, guided them down into a dark passage and flung open
the door of a sitting-room. This room was dark and sizzling with
strange noises; a gas-jet burning low was hissing, some papers
rustled in the breeze from the half-opened window, and a fire,
overburdened with the weight of black coal, made frantic little
spurts of resistance.
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