"Who's there? do you hear? who's there?" he shouts,
and receives no answer still. "I'll open the door at any rate," says he,
"maybe it's what he's made his escape," for they knew all about his
troubles, and wants to get in without noise, so praying all the
time--for his mind misgave him it might not be all right--he shifts the
bars and unlocks the door; but neither man, woman, nor child, nor horse,
nor any living shape was standing there, only something or another slipt
into the house close by his leg; it might be a dog, or something that
way, he could not tell, for he only seen it for a moment with the corner
of his eye, and it went in just like as if it belonged to the place. He
could not see which way it went, up or down, but the house was never a
happy one, or a quiet house after; and Dalton bangs the hall-door, and
he took a sort of a turn and a trembling, and back with him to Oliver,
the butler, looking as white as the blank leaf of his master's letter,
that was between his finger and thumb. "What is it? _what_ is it?" says
the butler, catching his crutch like a waypon, fastening his eyes on
Dalton's white face, and growing almost as pale himself.
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