“True, it does. I admit it all. But if you knew me, you would see how groundless, nay, how absurd such suspicions are. Why, I am a rich man. I am worth fifty thousand dollars.”
“Then why did you try to rob me?”
“I did not. It was only in appearance. Did you ever hear of a somnambulist?”
“No.”
“It is one who gets up in his sleep and is entirely unconscious of what he does. From early youth—from the days of my innocent boyhood—I have been a victim of this unfortunate malady.”
“Do you often steal in your sleep?” inquired Robert sarcastically.
“Not often, but I have done it before. Once, when a boy, I got up and took a purse from the pocket of my uncle, who occupied the same room with me.”
“What did your uncle say?” Robert asked with some curiosity.
“He was angry till my mother assured him that I was a somnambulist and not responsible for what I did at such a time. Then we had a good laugh, over it.”
“Do you mean to say, Mr. Fairfax, that when you had your hand in my pocket just now you were asleep?”