“No, old fellow, no,” he replied. “It was a passing fancy. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Then there was silence in the room, though neither of the men slept; Hilton lying in a state of feverish excitement, and Chumbley thinking over his words.
“What made me say that, I wonder?” he muttered. “Suppose it should be true, and that all this while the ruffian has been playing dark. By Jove! it is very likely; much more likely than for a couple of fellows to be carried off. Poor girl! No, it is impossible. I will not believe it. Let’s think of something else. Now then, how are we to get away from here?”
“Sleep, Chumbley?” said Hilton.
“If I answer and say no” thought Chumbley, “he will lie talking for hours. I’ll hold my tongue.”
“Fast asleep,” muttered Hilton to himself; “that fellow has no more soul than an ox,” and turning his head on the cushion that formed his pillow, he lay there in the feverish hot night, thinking of Helen Perowne, while the distant roar of some prowling tiger kept reaching his ear; and it was not until the thought of Grey Stuart’s soft eyes, looking truthfully at his, came like something soft and gentle to cool his heated imagination, that he finally dropped asleep, forgetting his troubles for the time.