Horatio Lyle
“First, there was the creak of a shoe and someone said, ‘Ow! He trod on my foot!’ ‘Shush.’ ‘You trod on my foot!’ ‘I’m really very sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’ ‘Shush!’ ‘Oh. Sorry.’ Then there was a shuffling noise. The sound of metal clinking.
‘Are you sure we’re in the right place?’ ‘This is where the carriage went.’ ‘What about the house?’ ‘Do you see any other houses with the lights still burning?’ ‘What’s that sound?’ ‘That’s Tate.’ ‘How can you tell, sir?’ ‘It’s the low whimpering sound of self-pity indicative of someone standing on his ear.’ ‘Goodness, I am so sorry.’ ‘Thomas, perhaps you just ought to stand very still and . . . and keep a look out.’ ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do it!’ ‘Teresa, you come with me.’ A sound of mud squishing underfoot. A brief shadow darting across the light from a window.
‘Teresa?’ ‘Yes, Mister Lyle?’ ‘Can you hear anything?’ ‘Hold on.’ ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Listenin’!
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