. . . . For the briefest instant his eyes rested on an
indistinct shadow--his own perhaps, cast by the candle-light?
Yet why should it lie lengthwise there, shaped like a coffin, on the
dark polished table that occupied the middle of the room?

The answer was that it did not. Before he could rub his eyes
it had gone. Moreover, he had turned to recognise a living
being . . . and no living person was in the room, unless by chance
(absurd supposition) one were hidden behind the dark red window
curtains.

"Recognise" may seem a strange word to use; but here had lain the
strangeness of the sensation--that the someone standing there was a
friend, waiting to be greeted. It was with eagerness and a curious
warmth of the heart that Lieutenant Lapenotiere had faced about--upon
nothing.

He continued to stare in a puzzled way at the window curtains, when a
voice by the door said:

"Good evening!--or perhaps, to be correct, good morning! You are Mr.--"

"Lapenotiere," answered the Lieutenant, who had turned sharply.
The voice--a gentleman's and pleasantly modulated--was not one he
knew; nor did he recognise the speaker--a youngish, shrewd-looking
man, dressed in civilian black, with knee-breeches. "Lapenotiere--of
the _Pickle_ schooner."

"Yes, yes--the porter bungled your name badly, but I guessed.
Lord Barham will see you personally. He is, in fact, dressing with
all haste at this moment. . . . I am his private secretary,"
explained the shrewd-looking gentleman in his quiet, business-like
voice. "Will you come with me upstairs?"

Lieutenant Lapenotiere followed him. At the foot of the great
staircase the Secretary turned.

"I may take it, sir, that we are not lightly disturbing his
Lordship--who is an old man."

"The news is of great moment, sir. Greater could scarcely be."

The Secretary bent his head. As they went up the staircase
Lieutenant Lapenotiere looked back and caught sight of the
night-porter in the middle of the hall, planted there and gazing up,
following their ascent.

On the first-floor landing they were met by a truly ridiculous
spectacle. There emerged from a doorway on the left of the wide
corridor an old gentleman clad in night-cap, night-shirt and bedroom
slippers, buttoning his breeches and cursing vigorously; while close
upon him followed a valet with dressing-gown on one arm, waistcoat
and wig on the other, vainly striving to keep pace with his master's
impatience.

"The braces,