The Argosy — page 102: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 89 It might have few pretensions to architectural dignity; but, with the passage of years, there had come to it a certain harmoniousness such as it had never possessed when it was new. Summer sun and winter rain had not been without their effect upon it. They had toned down the hardness of its original outlines : its coldness seemed less cold, its formality not so formal, as they must once have seemed. It was slowly mellowing in the soft, sweet air of antiquity. He noticed, as he walked along the front of the house from the main entrance to the side door, that the entire range of windows on the ground floor had their shutters fastened, and those of the upper floor their blinds drawn down. His heart chilled for a moment as the thought struck him that someone might perhaps be lying dead inside the house. But then he reflected that he should surely have heard such a thing spoken of at the village inn, where he had slept last night. Was it not, rather, that the house had always the same shut-up look that it wore to-day P Conroy knocked at the side door, a heavy door also, and was answered by the loud barking of a dog. After waiting for what seemed an intolerable’ time, he heard footsteps in the distance, which slowly drew nearer. The door was unbolted, and opened as far as the chain inside would permit. ‘Through this opening peered forth the crabbed, wizened face of an old man—of a man with a pointed chin, and a long nose, and eyes that were full of suspicion and ill-humour. | ‘And what may be your business at Heron Dyke?” he de- manded, in a harsh, querulous voice, after a look that took in the stranger from head to foot. ‘“‘ Be good enough to give this card to Mr. Denison, and if he can spare two minutes ——”’ ‘“‘He won’t see any strangers without he knows their business first,” interrupted the old man, brusquely, as he turned the card to the light that was streaming through the open doorway into the dim corridor in which he stood, and read the name printed on it. ‘Never heard of you before,” he added. ‘‘ Maybe you are a spy— a mean, dastardly spy,” he continued, after a pause, still eyeing the young man suspiciously from under his thick white eyebrows. “A spy! No, I am not a spy. Have you any spies in these parts P” = Eots of them.” ‘‘And what do they come to spy out?” That’s none of your business, sir, so long as you’re not one— though that has to be proved,” answered the crusty old man, as he went away with the card, leaving Conroy outside. He turned, and began to pace the gravelled pathway in front of the door. ‘‘Is my sweet princess here, I wonder, and shall I suc- ceed in seeing her?” he said to himself. ‘‘ Very like a wild-goose chase, this errand of mine. To see her once in London for a couple COnnicboooks (CO)