There was no answer.
I jumped out of bed and looked at my watch by the window. It was five o’clock in the morning.
“Oh,” I said, “this is wicked—this is infamous. The idea of those fellows sitting burning the gas till this time in the morning in a respectable house, and my great gaby of a husband not going up and telling them of it.”
I hurried on some of my things, and went down the stairs.
I had to pass No. 16. The door was wide open and the gas was out.
Whatever could it mean?
A terrible thought flashed through my brain.
They had murdered Harry, robbed the house, and decamped.
How I got down to the bar-parlour I don’t know. Terror gave me strength.
Directly I got to the door I saw the gas was still on there. I pushed the door open and ran in, and there was Harry fast asleep in the arm-chair, with the newspaper in his lap and his pipe dropped out of his mouth and lying on the hearthrug.