Storm scattered them and was placing an extra stick of wood upon the glowing coals to make sure that the evidences of his work would be wholly obliterated, when the utterance of his name in surprised accents made him wheel as though a blow had been dealt to him from behind.
“Norman! I thought you were in bed!” George, his short, obese figure, grotesque in an ugly striped bathrobe, stood blinking in the doorway. “What on earth are you doing down here? And what’s burning? There’s a funny odor——”
“Wretched green wood. No wonder the cook grumbles about this range; I thought I should never get it going!” Storm interrupted hastily. “I couldn’t sleep, and wanted a cup of coffee. There was no use in disturbing the servants.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” demanded the other. “I could have made it for you. You look all done up, Norman. Did you take that sleeping stuff Carr left for you?”
Storm shook his head.
“It would take more than that to bring sleep to me to-night,” he said.
“Well, anyway, I don’t know what you are poking about in here for!” objected George. “You’re a chump to try to get the range going at this hour when you’ve got that electric percolator in the dining-room. Here’s the coffee; come on in there and I’ll have it ready for you in no time!”
Storm followed him in silence, only too glad to get him away from the kitchen, and watched him as in deft bachelor fashion he manipulated the percolator.
Storm drank the coffee when it was made and then dragged George off to the library where the latter at length fell asleep upon the couch; but Storm sat huddled in his chair, dry-eyed and brooding, until the dawn.
Wendle Foulkes appeared at nine o’clock, his keen old face very solemn, and almost his first words, when his condolences were made, set at rest a question which Daly had raised on the previous day.