Похищенный
Chapter 4
Gangyeinthere,andupthestairs,andbringmedownthechestthat’satthetop.There’spapersin’t,”headded.
“CanIhavealight,sir?”saidI.
“Na,”saidhe,verycunningly.“Naelightsinmyhouse.”
“Verywell,sir,”saidI.“Arethestairsgood?”
“They’regrand,”saidhe;andthen,asIwasgoing,“Keeptothewall,”headded;“there’snaebannisters.Butthestairsaregrandunderfoot.”
OutIwentintothenight.Thewindwasstillmoaninginthedistance,thoughneverabreathofitcamenearthehouseofShaws.Ithadfallenblackerthanever;andIwasgladtofeelalongthewall,tillIcamethelengthofthestairtowerdooratthefarendoftheunfinishedwing.Ihadgotthekeyintothekeyholeandhadjustturnedit,whenalluponasudden,withoutsoundofwindorthunder,thewholeskylightedupwithwildfireandwentblackagain.Ihadtoputmyhandovermyeyestogetbacktothecolourofthedarkness;andindeedIwasalreadyhalfblindedwhenIsteppedintothetower.
Itwassodarkinside,itseemedabodycouldscarcebreathe;butIpushedoutwithfootandhand,andpresentlystruckthewallwiththeone,andthelowermostroundofthestairwiththeother.Thewall,bythetouch,wasoffinehewnstone;thestepstoo,thoughsomewhatsteepandnarrow,wereofpolishedmasonwork,andregularandsolidunderfoot.Mindingmyuncle’swordaboutthebannisters,Ikeptclosetothetowerside,andfeltmywayinthepitchdarknesswithabeatingheart.
