“Oh, sir,” he whispered, “I couldn’t go up there, sir. Not to that ‘ouse,” he shuddered. “Really, sir, I couldn’t. I’d much rather you’d go, sir.”
Accordingly, George got out, took a deep breath to brace himself, and started reluctantly up the path. He felt trapped in a grotesque and agonising predicament. He had no idea whom he was going to meet. He did not even know the name of McHarg’s friend. McHarg had spoken of him only as Rick, which George took to be an abbreviation or a nickname. And he could not be certain that the man lived here. All he knew was that after a day filled with incredible happenings, and a nightmarish ride in a Rolls-Royce with a terrified driver, he was now advancing up a path with rain and wind beating in his face towards a house he had never seen before to tell someone whose name he did not know that one of the most distinguished of American novelists was lying exhausted at his door, and would he please come out and see if he knew him.
So he went on up the path and knocked at the door of what appeared to be a rambling old farm-house that had been renovated. In a moment the door opened and a man stood before him, and George knew at once that he must be, not a servant, but the master of the place. He was a well-set and well-kept Englishman of middle age. He wore a velvet jacket, in the pockets of which he kept his hands thrust while he stared out with distrust at his nocturnal visitor. He had on a wing collar and a faultless bow tie in a polka-dot pattern. This touch of formal spruceness made George feel painfully awkward and embarrassed, for he knew what a disreputable figure he himself must cut. He had not shaved for two days, and his face was covered with a coarse smudge of stubbly beard. Save for the afternoon’s brief nap, he had not slept for thirty-six hours, and his eyes were red and bloodshot. His shoes were muddy, and his old hat, which was jammed down on his head, was dripping with the rain. And he was tired out, not only by physical fatigue, but by nervous strain and worry as well. It was plain that the Englishman thought him a suspicious character, for he stiffened and stood staring at him without a word.
“You’re—I----” George began—“that is to say, if you’re the one I’m looking for----”
“Eh?” the man said in a startled voice. “What!”
“It’s Mr. McHarg,” George tried again. “If you know him----”
“Eh?” he repeated, and then almost at once, “Oh!” The rising intonation of the man’s tone and the faint howl of surprise and understanding that he put into the word made it sound like a startled, sharply uttered “Owl” He was silent a moment, searching George’s face. “Ow!” he said again, and then quietly: “Where is he?”
“He—he’s out here in his car,” George said eagerly, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief.
“Ow!” the Englishman cried again, and then, impatiently: “Well, then, why doesn’t he come in? We’ve been waiting for him.”
“I think if you’d go down and speak to him----” George began, and paused.
“Ow!” the gentleman cried, looking at George with a solemn air. “Is he—that is to say—?...Ow!” he cried, as if a great light had suddenly burst upon him. “Hm-m!” he muttered meditatively. “Well, then,” he said in a somewhat firmer voice, stepping out into the path and closing the door carefully behind him, “suppose we just go down and have a look at him. Shall we?”
The last squall of rain had passed as quickly as it had blown up, and the moon was sailing clear again as they started down the path together. Half-way along, the Englishman stopped, looked apprehensive, and shouted to make himself heard above the wind:
“I say—is he—I mean to say,” he coughed, “is he—_sick?_”
George knew by the emphasis on that final word, as well as from previous experience with the English, that when he said “sick” he meant only one thing. George shook his head.
“He looks very ill,” he said, “but he is not sick.”
“Because,” the gentleman went on with howling apprehensiveness, “if he’s sick—ow, dear me!” he exclaimed. “I’m very fond of Knuck, you know—I’ve known him for years—but if he’s going to get sick!” He shuddered slightly. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not. I don’t want to know about it!” he shouted rapidly. “I—I don’t want to hear about it! I—I don’t want to be round when it’s going on! I—I--I wash my hands of the whole business!” he blurted out.
George reassured him that Mr. McHarg had not been sick but was merely desperately ill, so they went on down the path until they got to the car. The Englishman, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped up and opened the door, thrust his head inside, and, peering down at McHarg’s crumpled figure, called out:
“Knuck! I say, Knuck!”
McHarg was silent, save for his hoarse breathing, which was almost a snore.
“Knuck, old chap!” the Englishman cried again. “I say, Knuck!” he cried more loudly. “Are you there, old boy?”
McHarg very obviously was there, but he gave no answer.