"Who's there?"
"I want to speak to you."
The voice was Hume's. Fortunately I had locked the door, or he would quite possibly have walked straight into the room.
"I will be with you directly."
I returned the cloak to the wardrobe, put the portrait into my pocket, and with it the letter, then went to Hume.
He stood with his back to the window, and his hands behind his back, regarding me, as I entered the room, with a keenness very like impertinence. There was something hawk-like in his attitude, as if he was ready to pounce on me the instant he could find an opening. I had never had much pleasure in the man's society; but this air of open resentment was new. It was as if out of Lawrence's murdered body there had come a malicious spirit, which had entered into him, and inspired him with a sudden and unreasoning desire to work me mischief. That he meant to be disagreeable his first words made plain. I immediately made up my mind that, to the best of my ability, his intention should be persistently ignored.
"No wonder, Ferguson, that you resented my inquiry as to the terms on which you parted last night with the dead man."
"Indeed? My dear chap, sit down. If you
