“It’s all very sudden, sir,” said Martin.
“It is,” said Thompson. “But we can do nothing till the morning.”
Buffy went back, pushed the door gently open. The sleeper was still sleeping with that light snoring; his slumber was deep. He could dimly see, by the reflected light from the room without, that he had not moved. It seemed he would so sleep for hours.
Thompson went out on tiptoe down the stairs and into the street, marveling at the things that happen in this world.
Mr. Petre—I mean Mr. Blagden—slept and slept. He slept fourteen hours; and when he woke the revolution within him was accomplished. Mr. Blagden, no longer Mr. Petre, had returned to this world.
But he had paid a price. That blow he had received was not without its effects and sequel. He suffered some torpor of the spirit as does the body after long maintenance of an unnatural attitude. His brain was fatigued and for the moment indifferent.
He had slept all those hours profoundly. Upon waking and seeing those accustomed walls he was back, for a few seconds, in the days, two years gone and more, before he had left for America. He looked mechanically for clothes in the old mahogany tall-boys and found another man’s. As he did so his situation came back to him at once. Buffy Thompson had his rooms. He rang for Martin.
“Martin, have you any clothes of mine or did you store them?”
“I’ve got the gray suit, sir, and some ties and linen. The rest’s in the cottage at Harrington.”