Sir David Suchet

I opened the door and stood on the step while he stood in the doorway.

There was the danger light.

There was the dismal mouth of the tunnel.

There were the high, wet stone walls of the cutting.

There were the stars above them.

Do you see it?

I asked him, taking particular note of his face.

His eyes were prominent and strained, but not very much more so perhaps than my own had been when I had directed them earnestly towards the same spot.

No, he answered, it's not there.

Agreed, said I. We went in again, shut the door and resumed our seats.

I was thinking how best to improve this advantage, if it might be called one, when he took up the conversation in such a matter-of-course way, so assuming there could be no serious question of fact between us, that I felt myself placed in the weakest of positions.

By this time, you will fully understand, sir, he said, that what troubles me so dreadfully is the question, what does the spectre mean?

I was not sure, I told him, that I did fully understand.

What is its warning against?

He said, ruminating with his eyes on the fire, and only by times turning them on me.

What is the danger?

Where is the danger?

There's danger overhanging somewhere on the line.

Some dreadful calamity will happen.

It's not to be doubted this third time after what has gone before.