“It’s me—Nicholson.”
Mr Seymour peered at him dazedly.
“Nicholson? Why, yes, I see it is. But how very odd. Do you know, I quite thought you’d gone away. Quite. I must have been dreaming. How very strange.”
Toby approached and sat down pleasantly on the bed.
“I did go away,” he confessed. “But you know how a felon always returns to the scene of his crime. As a matter of fact, I have just come in through the window.”
He paused a moment as if to allow this information to sink well in. Mr Seymour took the news oddly. He just sat up in bed and looked as if he were about to weep.
“What time is it?” he demanded. “Dear me, how troublesome a night! It seems only a few minutes ago that I was having a boy put to bed. Whatever is it now?”
Toby leaned over him.
“Were all your boys present to-night?” he inquired. “Was anybody reported missing?”
The other grew visibly perplexed.