For the bailiff was a good-natured man. He had endeavoured to make it
clear to Robert from the beginning, by means of sundry winks and
smiles, that he understood the whole situation, which was one in which
any gentleman might find himself, and that he meant to act like a
friend. But Robert had only scowled at him. And even now, frightened
as he was, he disdained all parley. The bailiff was an enemy, and when
it came to a fight the Stonehouse family stood shoulder to shoulder.
So he crept past the cheerful light like a hunted mouse, and up the
stairs to the green-baize door, which shut off the kitchen from the
library and dining-room.

It was an important door. Dr. Stonehouse had had it made specially to
muffle sounds from the servants' quarters whilst he was working. He
had never worked, and there had been very rarely any servants to
disturb him, but the door remained invested with a kind of solemnity.
Among other virtues it opened at a touch, itself noiseless.

To Robert it was the veritable entrance to the dragon's cave. On one
side of it everything was dim and quiet. And then it swung back, and
you fell through into the dragon's clutches. You heard the awful roar,
and your heart fainted within you,

He fell over the top step. He felt he was going to be sick again. It
was the old, familiar sound. He had heard it so often, it was so much
part of his daily life that it ought not to have frightened him. But
it was always new, always more terrifying. Each time it had new notes
of incalculable menace. It was like a brutal hammer, crashing down on
bruised flesh and shrinking, quivering nerves, never quite killing you,
but with each blow leaving you less capable of endurance.