“Did I not kill myself last night? Anyway, I did not succeed, or perhaps it was all a delusion! I must have been in a bad way. It is that infernal wound that troubles me; I have never been quite myself since I came home.—Well! what is the matter with this place?—Where are the curtains, the carpet?” Sitting up in his bed he stared all round. “And the blankets, sheets—oh! my shirt is gone!” And as he jumped up from the bed on to the bare floor, he stood as the Almighty had made him. He rushed to the window, saw the streets empty, the doors of all the houses closed, and no one going in or out of them. After staring out of the window he spotted but one boy coming along leisurely on his tricycle cart, the butcher’s boy no doubt; a fit of laughter seized him, followed by hilarious convulsions, as he saw the water-cart coming across the square, with its street Neptune indolently reclining on the seat.
“This is funny! What the devil does it mean? Have these people gone clean mad? Why does not the police stop them?”
Lionel left the window and rang the bell. A few seconds after there was a gentle knock at the door.
“Yes, my lord.” It was the suave voice of Temple, my lord’s faithful valet.
“I say, Temple”—Lionel spoke through the door—“what’s the meaning of all this?”
“I cannot tell, my lord. Your lordship’s bathroom is ready, and breakfast is on the table.”
“You must be mad, Temple! How am I to get out of this room without my clothes? Bring in something—anything—a wrap of some sort, a bath-rug.”
“Not one to be found, my lord, and all the shops are closed.”
“How are you clad, Temple?”
“I’ve nothing on, my lord, and Willows, Mr Jacques, are all in the same condition. But I can assure your lordship that the morning is very hot.”