Mayfield peeled off his dress coat carelessly. He took the candle and proceeded to make his way down the stairs once more. Surely enough the big glass bottle of whisky stood on the side-board. Mayfield helped himself liberally, and filled up the glass with a spurt of soda from a syphon. Somebody behind him coughed.
"It's only me, sir," the thin respectful voice of Slight said. "I've got a touch of neuralgia, and couldn't sleep, sir. And just now it seemed to me that I heard somebody about. Got the idea of burglars into my head, sir."
"Oh, that's all right," Mayfield said with a suggestion of relief in his tone. "I couldn't sleep either, so I came down for a drink."
Slight bowed respectfully. But his old eyes had not overlooked the fact that little beads of wet glistened on Mayfield's trousers, and that his dress shoes were spotted with mud. Very silently and respectfully he crept away up the back stairs, and so to the room of one of the menservants--a young protégé of his. He was sleeping soundly enough as Slight laid a hand on his shoulder. He struggled to a sitting posture.
"Mr. Slight," he said sleepily. "What is the matter? Is the house on fire? Why you do look serious! What is the matter?"
"I don't know," Slight replied. "It may be murder for all I know. And I thought that I was too clever for those two chaps. Get up and dress yourself, Walters. As soon as ever it is light we've got something to do. Don't sit there asking a lot of foolish questions. How did they manage it when he went so early?"
Walters stared at the speaker, who pulled up abruptly.
"I dare say you think I am talking nonsense," he said. "Nothing of the kind, my lad. Just put your clothes on and come as far as my room. If anything has happened to that bonny lad of mine, I'll never forgive myself."