“And—and where will you be, sir?”
“I am going home, I think. I am going home and—to bed.”
CHAPTER XXIII
The next thing I remember with any distinctness is Dorinda's knocking at my bedroom door. I remember reaching that bedroom, of course, and of meeting Lute in the kitchen and telling him that I was not to be disturbed, that I should not come down to supper and that I wanted to be let alone—to be let ALONE—until I saw fit to show myself. But these memories are all foggy and mixed with dreams and nightmares. As I say, the next thing that I remember distinctly after staggering from the Colton library is Dorinda's knocking at the door of my bedroom.
“Ros! Roscoe!” she was calling. “Can you get up now? There is somebody downstairs waitin' to see you.”
I turned over in bed and began to collect my senses.
“What time is it, Dorinda?” I asked, drowsily.
“About ten, or a little after.”
Ten! Then I had not slept so long, after all. It was nearly four when I went to bed and . . . But what made the room so light? There was no lamp. And the windows . . . I sat up.