So the voice knew him at least. It was no mistake, it was he that was wanted.
He would have been incapable of further movement, even after having revealed himself, had they let him be.
But his name came again. "Mr. Durand." And then the knocking, puzzled now and questioning. And then his name again. "Mr. Durand. Hello! Mr. Durand ?"
He was drawn to it as if in a trancelike condition, and unbolted, and drew it back.
They flamed instantly into full color, from the pewter silhouettes they had been, and into full stature, from the shoulder busts.
The woman was dark haired, sallow skinned, rather thin of face but pretty nonetheless; wearing a costume of grape velveteen, adorned with black frogs across the bodice like a hussar's jacket. The man was florid of face, with a copper walrus mustache drooping over the corners of his mouth, a cane handle riding over the crook of his arm, and a shirt front with small blue forget-me-nots patterned all over it.
He raised his hat to Durand, in deference to his companion, and revealed the crown of his head to be somewhat bald, and also somewhat sunburned.
Durand didn't recognize him for a minute.
"I'm Dollard, the agent from whom you rented the house."
He waited, ready to smile at the expected acknowledgement, but there was none.
"Mrs. Durand tells me you are unexpectedly called away and the house will be available."
She had been there then. She had even thought of that.
"Oh," he said stupidly. "Oh. Oh, yes. Of course."
Dollard gave him a somewhat quizzical look, as if unable to understand his lack of immediate comprehension. "That is correct, isn't it ?"
"Yes," he said, realizing he'd already blundered copiously in the moment or two since he'd appeared at the door.
"Have I your permission to show this possible client through the house?"
"Now?" he murmured aghast. He could almost feel his chest pucker, as if closing up for lack of oxygen.
Dollard seemed to miss the intonation, having suddenly remembered his best business manners. "Oh, forgive me. Mrs. mayer, may I present Mr. Durand?"
He saw the young woman glance at the forgotten coffee cup his hand still clung to, as if it were some kind of a chalice with mystic powers to save him. "I'm afraid we may have come at an unfortunate time," she suggested deprecatingly., "We're disturbing Mr. Durand. Should we not perhaps come back at another time, Mr. Dollard?"
The agent had already deftly inserted himself on the inside, however, and since he refused to return to her, she had to follow somewhat hesitantly to where he was, even in the act of speaking.
"I know how upset everything is when a move is contemplated; the packing and all," she apologized.
"I'm sure Mr. Durand doesn't mind," Dollard said. "We won't be very long." And since he had unobtrusively managed to close the door after the three of them by this time, the fact was already an accomplished one.
They moved down the hall parallel to one another, the young woman in the middle; Dollard striding with heavy-footed assurance, Durand all but tottering.
"This is the hall. Notice how spacious it is." Dollard swept his arm up, like an opera tenor on a high note.
"The light is quite good too," agreed the young woman.
Dollard tapped his cane. "The finest hardwood parquetry. You don't always find it."
They advanced after the momentary halt.
"Now, in here is the parlor," Dollard proclaimed grandly, again with a sweep.
"Is the furniture yours, Mr. Durand?" she asked.
Dollard's answer overrode whatever one he might have brought himself to make, sparing him the necessity. "The furniture goes with the house," he stated flatly.
She nodded her head approvingly. "This is quite a nice room. Yes, it's quite nice."
She had already turned her shoulder to it, about to lead them on elsewhere, and Dollard had turned in accord with her. When suddenly, as if only now struck by something he had already observed a moment ago, he looked back, pointed unexpectedly with his cane.
"Shouldn't there be a rug here?"
The dust patch was suddenly the most conspicuous thing in the room. In the house, in the whole world. It glowed livid, as if limned with phosphorus. To Durand, at least, it almost appeared incandescent, and he felt sure they must see it that way too. He could feel his face bleaching and drawing taut over the cheekbones, as if the slack of his skin were being pulled at the back of his head by some cruel hand.
"Where ?" he managed to utter.
Dollard's cane tapped down twice, for irritated emphasis. "Here. Here."
"Oh," Durand said pitifully, crumbling phrases in a play for time. "Oh, there--Oh, yes-I think you're-I'd have to ask my--" Then suddenly he'd regained command of himself, and his tone was firm, though still brittle. "It was removed to be beaten out. I remember now."
"Then it's outdoors ?" Dollard queried, as though not wholly pleased. Without waiting to be answered, he crossed to one of the windows, lowered his head to avoid the interplay of the curtains, and swept his gaze about. "No, I fail to see it there." He turned his head back to Durand, as if uneasily asking reassurance.
The latter's eyelids, which had closed for a moment over some inner illness of his own, went up again in time to meet the agent's boring glance.
"It's safe," he said. "It's somewhere about the house. Just where, I couldn't exactly--"
"It was quite valuable," Dollard said. "I trust it hasn't been stolen. It will have to be accounted for, of course."
"It will be," Durand breathed almost inaudibly.
The young woman shifted her foot slightly, in forebearing reminder that she was being detained; this instantly succeeded in recalling his present duties to Dollard, and he dropped the topic.
He hastened back to her, and tipped two fingers to her elbow in courtly guidance. "Shall we continue, Mrs. Thayer? Next I would like you to see the upstairs."
They ascended in single file, she in the lead, Durand at the rear. They ascended slowly, and he seemed to feel each footfall imprinted on his heart, as though it were that they were treading upon. The rustle and hiss of her multiple skirts was like the sound of volatile water rushing down a wooden trough, though it flowed the other way, upward instead of down.
"You will notice the excellent light that is obtained throughout this house," Dollard preened himself, as soon as they were on level flooring once more. He hooked his thumbs to the armholes of his waistcoat, allowed his fingers to trip contentedly against his chest. "In here, an extra little sitting room for the lady of the house. To do her sewing, perhaps." He smiled benevolently, winked at Durand behind her back, as though to show him he knew women, knew what pleased them.
He was in fine fettle today, apparently; enjoying every moment of his often-performed duties. Durand remembered enjoyment, an academic word from the vague past; remembered the word, but not its sensation. His wrists felt as cold as though tight coils of wire were cutting into their flesh, had long since stopped all circulation.
At their bedroom door she balked, chastely withdrew the tentative foot she had put forward, as soon as she had identified it for what it was.
"And this room has a most desirable outlook," Dollard orated heedlessly. "If you will be good enough to go in--"
Her eyes widened in dignified, gravely offered reproach. "Mr. Dollard!" she reminded him firmly. "There is a bed in there. And my husband is not accompanying me."
"Oh, your pardon! Of course!" he protested elaborately, with recessive genuflections. "Mr. Durand?"
The two men delicately withdrew all the way up-hall to the stairhead, to wait for her, and with the impurity of mixed company thus removed, she proceeded to enter the room and inspect it at her leisure.
"A real lady," Dollard commented admiringly under his breath, punctiliously looking the other way so that even his eyes could not seem to follow her on her unchaperoned expedition.
Durand's hand lay draggingly on his collar, forgotten there since he had last tried to ease his throat some moments ago.