‘Micky,’ said Teresa, ‘show Mr. Redgrave to his room—the room over here. Bridget has prepared it; but see that all is in order.’
‘That I will, miss,’ said Micky, but only after a marked pause.
Richard shook hands with his hostess and ascended the stairs in Micky’s wake, and was presently alone in a not very large bedroom, plainly but sufficiently furnished, and with some rather good prints of famous pictures on the walls.
‘Without doubt,’ he said, as he got into bed, ‘I have had a good day and deserve a good night. I must take measures to stop here as long as I can.’
He had scarcely closed his eyes when there was a tap at the door, the discreetest possible tap.
‘Well?’ he inquired.
‘It’s myself, sorr,’ said the voice of Micky familiarly.
‘Come in, then, Mike,’ Richard said with equal familiarity.
He already liked Micky; he felt as though he had known Micky for many years.
Richard had drawn both the blind and the curtains, and the room was in darkness; he could only discern the outline of a figure.