After some minutes, the door was unbolted from the inside. It budged a laborious half inch, then another. Lucy couldn’t see who was responsible for these efforts, but there came from the black crack a wispy, whispering voice:
“Who’s there?”
“Lucien Minor, sir.”
“Who?”
“Lucy, sir. I’m reporting to my post under a Mr. Olderglough. Is that you?”
“Mmmm,” said the voice, as if unsure.
“I’m happy to make your acquaintance. Thank you again for the position. I’m eager to begin my appointment, and I should think you won’t regret taking me—”
Lucy heard the distant pop of a rifle discharging. It was a miniature and cotton-wrapped sound, and he wondered at the chasm separating the quaintness of this noise and the actuality of a hurtling bullet. There came another report, and a pause; now there followed a rushing crescendo of pops, like a handful of tacks strewn over hardwood. Lucy’s feet were numb, and his stomach felt airy and scooped out.
“May I come in, sir?”
The voice uttered a reply but Lucy couldn’t make it out.
“What was that?” he asked.
The voice rose to a shriek: “Push the fucking door!”
Lucy’s recovery from the directive was admirable and timely. He pushed with all his strength; the heavy door hesitated, then swept slowly, evenly open.