“Oh, yes, I believe so; but I woke up suddenly. Haven’t heard or seen anything, have you?”
“No,” said Dick; and he felt guilty again, feeling sure that his brother-officer had heard him close the window.
“Then it must have been a dream. Guilty conscience needs no accuser.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“I’ll make confession, old fellow,” said Wyatt. “It was so awfully hot in my room that I couldn’t bear it any longer, and I got up and opened the window, meaning to leave it for a few minutes while I lay down till the room was cooler—for I couldn’t, have gone to sleep like that, tired as I was; and then I went off fast asleep.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Dick.
“There, don’t ‘Oh!’ at a fellow. It was wrong, of course, and I oughtn’t to have done it, for I might have been sure that I should go to sleep. But guilty conscience set me dreaming, and I dreamed that I was seeing exactly what you saw that night.”
“Wyatt!”
“Yes; it was all as real as could be, only there was no lightning. But I seemed to dimly make out a nigger’s legs kicking about at the top of the window, and then getting to the side and coming down till he glided over the sill on to the floor. Then I seemed to hear the sitting-room door open, and heard him go through.”
“How strange!” said Dick.