His father, Christine and Edith were in the dining-room. Robert knew
they were all there, though he could not see them. The dining-room
door at the end of the unlit passage stood half open, showing the
handsome mahogany sideboard and the two Chippendale chairs on either
side guarding it like lions. They had a curious tense, still look, as
though what they saw in the hidden side of the room struck them stiff
with astonishment and horror.

Dr. Stonehouse was speaking. His voice was so low-pitched that Robert
could not hear what he said. It was like the murderous, meaningless
growling of a mad dog; every now and then it seemed to break free--to
explode into a shattering roar--and then with a frightful effort to be
dragged back, held down, in order that it might leap out again with a
redoubled violence. It was punctuated by the sharp, spiteful smack of
a fist brought down into the open hand.

Edith whined and once Christine spoke, her clear still voice patient
and resolute.

Robert crouched where he had fallen. The baize door swung back, and
touched him very softly like a hand out of the dark. It comforted him.
It reminded him that he had only to choose, and it would stand between
him and this threatening terror--that it would give him time to rush
back down the stone stairs--out into the street--further and further
till they would never find him again. But he could not move. He
couldn't leave Christine like that. His heart was sick with pity for
her. Why did his father speak to her like that? Didn't he see how
good and faithful she was? Didn't he know that he, Robert, his son,
had no one else in the whole world?