“He will be all right,” counselled Miss Greene. “You go to bed and lock yourself in. Harriet and I will see to his breakfast in the morning. It will be just as well for you to be out of the way.”
And Mrs. Korner, only too thankful for some one to tell her what to do, obeyed in all things.
Toward seven o'clock the sunlight streaming into the room caused Mr. Korner first to blink, then yawn, then open half an eye.
“Greet the day with a smile,” murmured Mr. Korner, sleepily, “and it will—”
Mr. Korner sat up suddenly and looked about him. This was not bed. The fragments of a jug and glass lay scattered round his feet. To the tablecloth an overturned cruet-stand mingled with egg gave colour. A tingling sensation about his head called for investigation. Mr. Korner was forced to the conclusion that somebody had been trying to make a salad of him—somebody with an exceptionally heavy hand for mustard. A sound directed Mr. Korner's attention to the door.
The face of Miss Greene, portentously grave, was peeping through the jar.
Mr. Korner rose. Miss Greene entered stealthily, and, closing the door, stood with her back against it.
“I suppose you know what—what you've done?” suggested Miss Greene.
She spoke in a sepulchral tone; it chilled poor Mr. Korner to the bone.
“It is beginning to come back to me, but not—not very clearly,” admitted Mr. Korner.