He thought unutterable things, walking to the farthest limits of the park—and farther. It was near to midnight when he returned, his light top-coat dripping, for the wind and the clouds had brought with them a chill and drenching mist.
He paused in the hall. Voices penetrated from the drawing-room. The bridge game was still on. He climbed the broad staircase, gazed down upon by Archdeacons of past centuries in time-blackened frames. On the landings stands of armor, reflecting dim lights, appeared as sentinels.
He found his valet drowsing.
"Fetch me a brandy-and-soda at once," he ordered. "Better make it a decanter and two sodas," he added. "I'm chilled to the bone."
He might have added that his spirits were low, and required strenuous lifting measures. But he was not the sort that shares emotions with one's servants.
He drank the pegs when they came, dismissed the man, and was almost pleased to find himself drowsy. Had he been conscious, it would have surprised him to realize that he dropped into the deepest of deep slumbers directly his head rested on a pillow.
He slept soundly for four hours, and then awakened with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. He was choking. The room was full of smoke.
Coughing like an unmuffled gas engine, he got his feet to the floor, crept to where he imagined the light-switch was—found it by a miracle and turned it on.
But there was no answering illumination. Somewhere the rubber insulation had been burned away and the current short-circuited.
This fact of itself told him that the fire was no tiny matter. Carfen House was ablaze, and probably some of its inmates were still sleeping, unwarned, as he had been. Nina! She was his first thought. Was Nina in peril?