At first I could see nothing save the solitary electric light over the portrait of Sir James. And then in the gloom beyond I saw a tall figure standing motionless by the old oak dining-table. It was Bill—even in the dim light I recognised that clean-cut profile; Bill clad in his pyjamas only, with one hand stretched out in front of him, pointing. And then, suddenly, he spoke.
“You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!”
Nothing more—just that one remark; his hand still pointing inexorably across the table. Then after a moment he turned so that the light fell full on his face, and I realised what was the matter. Bill Sibton was walking in his sleep.
Slowly he came towards the door behind which I stood, and passed through it—so close that he almost touched me as I shrank back against the wall. Then he went up the stairs, and as soon as I heard him reach the landing above, I quickly turned out the light in the dining-room and followed him. His bedroom door was closed: there was no sound from inside.
There was nothing more for me to do: my burglar had developed into a harmless somnambulist. Moreover, it suddenly struck me that I had become most infernally sleepy myself. So I did not curse Bill mentally as much as I might have done. I turned in, and my nine o’clock next morning was very provisional.
So was Bill Sibton’s: we arrived together for breakfast at a quarter to ten. He looked haggard and ill, like a man who has not slept, and his first remark was to curse Dick Armytage.
“I had the most infernal dreams last night,” he grumbled. “Entirely through Dick reminding me of this room. I dreamed the whole show that took place in here in that old bird’s time.”
He pointed to the portrait of Sir James.
“Did you!” I remarked, pouring out some coffee. “Must have been quite interesting.”
“I know I wasn’t at all popular with the crowd,” he said. “I don’t set any store by dreams myself—but last night it was really extraordinarily vivid.” He stirred his tea thoughtfully.