Meschini looked at the fellow quietly, and even gave him a
friendly smile, to test his own coolness, a civility which was
acknowledged by a familiar nod. The librarian's spirits rose. He
did not resent the familiarity of the footman, for, with all his
learning, he was little more than a servant himself, and the
accident had come conveniently as a trial of his strength. The man
evidently saw nothing unusual in his appearance. Moreover, as he
walked, the brandy bottle in his coat tail pocket beat
reassuringly against the calves of his legs. He opened the door of
the library and found himself in the scene of his terror.
There lay the old coat, wrapped together on the table, as he had
left it. The sun had moved a little farther during his absence,
and the heap of cloth looked innocent enough. Meschini could not
understand how it had frightened him so terribly. He still felt
that pleasant warmth about his face and hands. That was the door
before which he had been such a coward. What was beyond it? The
empty passage. He would go and hang the coat where it had hung
always, where he always left it when he came in the morning,
unless he needed it to keep himself warm. What could be simpler,
or easier? He took the thing in one hand, turned the handle and
looked out.
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