“Yes, you look very tired,” I said, in as ordinary a voice as I could manage, handing the keys back to him.
“Do I? Well, to tell you the truth, I have been quite unable to sleep lately. I am so much disturbed by these hackney carmen who make it a practice to drive past the house at all hours of the night; I hope they do not annoy you? I have told them several times to go away, but they simply laugh at me. And the strange thing is,” he continued, leaning over the rail of the corridor and looking suspiciously down into the hall, “that though that tree is still lying across the avenue, it does not stop them in the least—they just drive through it. Well, good night, my dear,” he said, nodding at me in a friendly way; “we must give it up for to-night, but we shall unearth Master Willy to-morrow.”
He nodded again, and walked away down the corridor.
CHAPTER VII.
THROUGH THE FRENCH WINDOW.
“Remorse she ne’er forsakes us;
A bloodhound staunch, she tracks our rapid step.”
“A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire.”