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Meanwhile, Du Cros, in the silent house of the bookmaker, stood trembling as he listened to the peremptory knocking on the door. There was something in that commonplace act that shook him to the core. In ordinary circumstances, he would have crossed over and seen at once who it was that thundered for admittance. But now he was afraid. He had a strange feeling that something would happen to him directly he opened the door. He quivered from head to foot, and there was a sensation like physical sickness beneath his beating heart. Great beads of sweat trickled down his face and hung upon his lips.
"What cursed thing is it?" he muttered. "Why am I tortured in this fashion? Some friend of Lancaster's, perhaps, or----"