The night wind stole softly in and breathed restfully upon him, filling his lungs with clean, pure air, and fanning his hot forehead, and the little charred stick collapsed with a soft shudder and went out, leaving the room in darkness, and Murray Van Rensselaer slept.
XII
When he awoke eons might have passed. He didn’t know where he was, and a broad band of sun was streaming across his bed. The wind was blowing the muslin curtain gaily out like a streamer across the room, and Mrs. Summers was tapping at the door with crisp, decided knocks, and calling to him:
“Mr. Murray! Mr. Murray! I’m sorry to have to disturb you, but it’s getting very late. You ought to be eating your breakfast this minute. You don’t want to be late the first morning, you know!”
He opened blinded eyes and tried to locate himself. Who in thunder was Mr. Murray, and why didn’t he want to be late the first morning? Was that his man calling him? No, it was a woman’s voice. He blinked toward the window and saw the outlines of a church against the brightness of the sunny sky, and saw people going down a strange street. He turned his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. What the dickens did it matter, anyhow? He was tired and was going to sleep this heaviness off. He must have been out late the night before. Hitting the pace pretty hard again! Must be at some club, or one of the fellows took him home. What was the little old idea, anyhow, trying to wake him up? Couldn’t they let a fellow sleep till he was ready to wake up?
But the knocking continued, and he was about to tell the person at the door what he thought of him in most forcible language, when he opened his eyes again with his face the other way, and saw the old rough coat he had been wearing for the past three weeks lying across the nice comfortable chair by the side of the fireplace awaiting him. Then it all came back to him like a slap in the face.
He sprang to a sitting posture and gazed hurriedly about him, a growing alarm in his eyes.
“Mr. Murray! Mr. Murray! Are you awake? Breakfast is ready. It’s very late!” reiterated the pleasant but firm voice. “I’m afraid Mr. Harper will think—are you almost ready?”
“Oh—I—Why yes, Mrs. Summers,” he answered then, half abashed, with a growing comprehension in his tone. “Why, yes,” crisply, “I’ll be with you in just a moment. I’m nearly dressed. I must have overslept—”
Mrs. Summers, relieved, retired from the door, and Murray slid cautiously from the bed and grasped what garments came to hand, which proved to be the suit he had worn the night before. He couldn’t go down in those old togs in broad daylight, of course. He had to make a getaway the best way possible, now that he had messed all his plans by falling asleep. Poor old guy, he would miss a suit also, but what’s a suit of clothes in an emergency!