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"Who's there?" he asked, imperiously and with some show of anger.
No answer, but another quiet knock.
"Speak! or go from my door. No one has the right to intrude here.
What is your name and business?"
Continued knocking - nothing more.
With an outburst of wrath, which made the hangar ring, Orlando
lifted his fist to answer this appeal in his own fierce fashion
from his own side of the door, but the impulse paused at fulfilment,
and he let his arm fall again in a rush of self-hatred which it
would have pained his worst enemy, even little Doris, to witness.
As it reached his side, the knock came again.
It was too much. With an oath, Orlando reached for his key. But
before fitting it into the lock, he cast a look behind him. The
car was in plain sight, filling the central space from floor to
roof. A single glance from a stranger's eye, and its principal
secret would be a secret no longer. He must not run such a risk.
Before he answered this call, he must drop the curtain he had
rigged up against such emergencies as these. He had but to pull
a cord and a veil would fall before his treasure, concealing it as
effectually as an Eastern bride is concealed behind her yashmak.
Stepping to the wall, he drew that cord, then with an impatient
sigh, returned to the door.
Another quiet but insistent knock greeted him. In no fury now, but
with a vague sense of portent which gave an aspect of farewell to
the one quick glance he cast about the well-known spot, he fitted
the key in the lock, and stood ready to turn it.
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