"Come along, I'll go in with
you."
They crossed the road, ascended the steps, and in a few minutes they
were inside the house. The place smelt very musty and uninhabited.
Burton delicately avoided the subject of its being still unlet. The
little chamber on the right of the hall was as dark as ever. Burton
felt his heart beat quickly as a little waft of familiar perfume swept
out to him at the opening of the door. Mr. Waddington struck a match
and held it over his head.
"So this is the room," he remarked. "Dashed if I've ever been in it!
It wants cleaning out and fumigating badly. What's this?"
He picked up the sheet of paper, which was lying exactly as Burton had
left it. Then he lifted up the little dwarf tree and looked at it.
"It is finished. The nineteenth generation has triumphed. He who shall
eat of the brown fruit of this tree, shall see the things of Life and
Death as they are. He who shall eat--"
"Well, I'm d--d!" he muttered. "What's it all mean, anyway?"
"Try a brown bean," Burton suggested softly. "They aren't half bad."
"Very likely poison," Mr. Waddington said, suspiciously.
Burton said nothing for a moment. He had taken up the sheet of paper
and was gazing at the untranslated portion.
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