Lady Wychcote and Gerald finally joined them as they stood perplexed, looking at that locked door, listening for some sound from behind it that would tell them that Cecil had come back safe from his perilous clambering over the dark roof. It was agreed that all should await events, together, in Sophy's bedroom. It was the nearest room to Cecil's, and by leaving the door open they could still see his door, and Gaynor sitting before it.
The night dragged on interminably—one of those grisly nights, when not only illness but peril and fear and madness squat on the hearthstone.
About five o'clock, they saw Gaynor start and rise, listening. They all rose. Bellamy went towards the door. Gaynor turned and came to meet him.
"He's back, sir," the man whispered. "He's moving round heavy-like. Do you think it may have worn off, sir?"
"I don't know," said Bellamy.
He, too, went and listened. Suddenly harsh, snoring breaths—slow, regular—fell on his ear. He straightened, giving a long sigh of relief.
"What is it, sir?" whispered the valet eagerly.
"He's asleep, Gaynor. He'll sleep for hours now. You'd better get some rest."
He went back to the others.
"It's over for the present," he explained. "You need have no more anxiety for the next seven or eight hours—maybe more. By what train do you expect Nurse Harding, Mrs. Chesney?"