“Buffy,” said poor Mr. Petre again, “let me sleep. I must sleep. I won’t dine. Let me sleep. Only,” here he clasped Thompson’s hand suddenly at the wrist with a gesture so absurdly exaggerated that his friend grew afraid, “only promise me you will come back at eight to-morrow morning, and no matter how soundly I am sleeping, promise to wake me and be with me and befriend me, Thompson. Tell my man that I am sleeping, and tell him—yes, tell him that I know where the bell is and that I may ring, and that if I ring he is to come at once, no matter what the hour is. It rings in his room, you know. I may need him. I may need him, Thompson,” he said, his voice falling to a dangerous whisper. “I remember him perfectly well. My man. Wait here till he comes in. Tell him I must sleep on.”
“That’s all right,” said Thompson heartily. “I’ll see to everything. Go in and sleep.”
He was intrigued and bewildered, but he had plenty of sense, and he saw what was needed.
“You never had the telephone. It’s one of my grievances. I’ll send a messenger round to Chesterfield Gardens and tell them I can’t come.”
“Chesterfield Gardens,” said Mr. Petre suddenly; and then his troubled soul walled up again and he said, “Yes, Chesterfield Gardens. What houses?” Thus he mumbled to himself. There was some connection in his mind with these words, “Chesterfield Gardens,” which he could carry on no longer. He stumbled into the little bedroom as though he were drunk. Thompson helped him off with his clothes and into his night-shirt, saw him into bed, turned out the light, and sat anxiously in the next room until a steady snoring from within told him that the man slept as he needed to sleep.
Buffy Thompson knocked out the ashes of his pipe very gently, so as not to awaken that strange invalid—if invalid he were—filled it again, lit it, and smoked, staring at the floor with his head upon his hands.
It could not be drugs. There was nothing of that sort about Blagden at all. It certainly was not drink—drink never took a man that way. There was the sound of a door opening and shutting downstairs, and a man came in with a little dog upon a leash. Thompson went out and hushed.
“Mr. Blagden’s come back,” he said. “But he’s exceedingly tired, and he must sleep. He’s sleeping now in his room. He wants you to take the dog upstairs with you, and he’ll ring if he wants you at all during the night. Don’t go out, Martin. Stay in and be ready for him if he wants you—at any hour. I don’t know what has happened. I am a little frightened about him.”
“I had no warning, sir,” said Martin.
“No, neither had I,” answered Thompson. “I tell you I don’t know what’s happened. Anyhow, he must sleep. If you want me, go round next door and ring up the Bolton. I shall take a room there to-night.”