The captain sat slowly sipping his port, and the subject was discussed no more.
Then at last bedtime came.
Syd was seated in his room alone. He had washed and changed his clothes, expecting moment by moment to be summoned to hear his fate, but the hours had passed, and he was sick and faint with hunger and exhaustion.
As he sat there he heard the various familiar noises in the house, each of which told him what was going on. He recognised the jingling of glasses on a wooden tray, which he knew meant the butler clearing the dining-room. He heard the closing of the library door. Then there was a long silence, followed by the rattling of shutters, the shooting of bolts, the noise made by bars, and after another lapse, the murmur of deep voices in the hall, the clink of silver candlesticks on the marble slab, and a deep cough.
“They’re gone up to bed,” said Sydney to himself, and wearily thinking that he would not be spoken to, and that he had better patiently try to forget his hunger in sleep, so as to be ready for the painful interview of the morning, he rose to undress.
But he did not begin. He stood thinking about the events of the past twenty-four hours, and like many another, felt that he would have given anything to recall the past.
For he was very miserable, and his misery found vent once more as he was asking himself what would be his fate in the world.
“Yes, I’ve behaved like a wretched, thoughtless fool.”
“Pst! Syd!”
He started and looked round, to see that the door had been slightly opened, and that his uncle’s great red face was thrust into the room.