Heyst was pleased at
the absence of light in his bungalow. It looked as uninhabited as
the others. He continued to lead the way, inclining to the right. His
equable voice was heard:
"This one would be the best. It was our counting-house. There is some
furniture in it yet. I am pretty certain that you'll find a couple of
camp bedsteads in one of the rooms."
The high-pitched roof of the bungalow towered up very close, eclipsing
the sky.
"Here we are. Three steps. As you see, there's a wide veranda. Sorry to
keep you waiting for a moment; the door is locked, I think."
He was heard trying it. Then he leaned against the rail, saying:
"Wang will get the keys."
The others waited, two vague shapes nearly mingled together in the
darkness of the veranda, from which issued a sudden chattering of Mr.
Jones's teeth, directly suppressed, and a slight shuffle of Ricardo's
feet. Their guide and host, his back against the rail, seemed to have
forgotten their existence. Suddenly he moved, and murmured:
"Ah, here's the trolley."
Then he raised his voice in Malay, and was answered, "Ya tuan," from an
indistinct group that could be made out in the direction of the track.
"I have sent Wang for the key and a light," he said, in a voice
that came out without any particular direction--a peculiarity which
disconcerted Ricardo.
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