Now the basin
had not been cleaned out for some months, and beneath the water,
which did not exceed a foot and a half in depth, there lay a good two
inches of slime and weed, some portion of which his knuckles were
effectively transferring to his face. He had lost a shoe.
Worse than this, as he stood up, shook the water out of his breeches
and turned to escape back to the house, it dawned on him that he had
lost the latchkey!
He had been carrying it in his hand at the moment of the catastrophe.
. . . He sat down on the pebbled path beside the basin, flung
himself upon his stomach and, leaning over the brink as far as he
dared, began to grope in the mud. After some minutes he recovered
his shoe, but by and by was forced to abandon the search for the key
as hopeless. He had no lantern. . . .
He cast an appealing glance up at the light in his bedroom window.
His gaze travelled down to the fanlight over the front door. And
with that the dreadful truth broke on him. Without the latchkey he
could not possibly re-enter the house.
He unlaced and drew on his sodden shoe, and sat for a while
considering. Should he wait here in this dreadful plight until his
hosts returned? Or might he not run down to the theatre (which lay
but two short streets away), explain the accident to a doorkeeper,
and get a message conveyed to Mr. Basket? Yes, this was clearly the
wiser course.
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