Part 11 (1/2)

”I am afraid that I must wish you good-night.” Rising, Mr. Paxton moved towards the door. Turning in his chair, the stranger stared at him with an air of grievance.

”You don't seem very polite, not answering a civil question when you're asked one.”

Mr. Paxton only smiled.

”Good-night.”

He could hear the stranger grumbling to himself, even after the door was closed. He asked the porter in the hall casually who the man might be.

”I don't know, sir. He came in just after you. I don't think I have ever seen him before. He has taken a bed for the night.”

Mr. Paxton went up the stairs, smiling to himself as he went.

”They are hot on the scent. Mr. Lawrence evidently has no intention of allowing the gra.s.s to grow under his feet. He means, if the thing is possible, to have a sight of that Gladstone bag, at any rate by deputy. I may be wrong, but the deputy whom I fancy he has selected is an individual possessed of such a small amount of tact--whatever other virtues he may have--that I hardly think I am. In any case it is probably just as well that that Gladstone bag sleeps downstairs, while I sleep up.”

The door of Mr. Paxton's bedroom was furnished with a bolt as well as a lock. He carefully secured both.

”I don't think that any one will be able to get through that door without arousing me. And even should any enterprising person succeed in doing so, I fear that his success will go no farther. His labours will be unrewarded.”

Mr. Paxton was master of a great art--the art of being able to go to sleep when he wished. Practically, in bed or out of it, whenever he chose, he could treat himself to the luxury of a slumber; and also, when he chose, he could wake out of it. This very desirable accomplishment did not fail him then. As soon as he was between the sheets he composed himself to rest; and in an infinitesimally short s.p.a.ce of time rest came to him. He slept as peacefully as if he had not had a care upon his mind.

And his sleep continued far into the night. But, profound and restful though it was, it was light. The slightest unusual sound was sufficient to awake him. It was indeed a sound which would have been inaudible to nine sleepers out of ten which actually did arouse him.

Instantly his eyes were wide open and his senses keenly on the alert.

He lay quite still in bed, listening. And as he listened he smiled.

”I thought so. My friend of the smoking-room, unless I err. Trying to turn the key in the lock with a pair of nippers, from outside. It won't do, my man. You are a little clumsy at your work. Your clumsiness betrayed you. You should get a firm hold of the key before you begin to turn, or your nippers are apt to slip, and when they slip they make a noise.”

Mr. Paxton permitted no sign to escape him which could show the intruder who was endeavouring to make an unceremonious entrance into the apartment that he had ceased to sleep. He continued to lie quite still and to listen, enjoying what he heard. Either the lock was rusty or the key refractory, or, as Mr. Paxton said, the operator clumsy, but certainly he did take what seemed to be an unconscionable length of time in performing what is supposed to be a rudimentary function in the burglar's art. He fumbled and fumbled, time after time, in vain.

One could hear in the prevailing silence the tiny click which his nippers made each time they lost their hold. Some three or four minutes probably elapsed before a slight grating sound--which seemed to show that the lock was rusty--told that, after all, the key had been turned. Mr. Paxton almost chuckled.

”Now for the scattering of the labourer's hopes of harvest!”

The person who was outside the door, satisfied that the lock had been opened, firmly, yet no doubt gently, grasped the handle of the door.

He turned it. With all his gentleness it grated. One could hear that he gave it an inward push, only to discover that the bolt was shot inside. And that same moment Mr. Paxton's voice rang out, clear and cold--

”Who's there?”

No answer. Mr. Paxton's sharp ears imagined that they could just detect the shuffling along the pa.s.sage of retreating footsteps.

”Is any one at the door?”

Still no reply. Mr. Paxton's next words were uttered _sotto voce_ with a grin.

”I don't fancy that there is any one outside the door just now; nor that to-night there is likely to be again. I'll just jump out and undo the result of that poor man's patient labours.”

Re-locking the door, Mr. Paxton once more composed himself to rest, and again sleep came to him almost in the instant that he sought it.

And for the second time he was aroused by a sound so faint that it would hardly have penetrated to the average sleeper's senses. On this occasion the interruption was unexpected. He turned himself slightly in bed, so that he might be in a better position for listening.