Had he napped—slept? How long?... He stared, bewildered, groping blindly after his wandering wits....
The windows, that had been black oblongs in the illuminated walls, were filled with a cool and shapeless tone of grey. He reeled (rather than walked) to one of them and looked out.
The street below was vacant, desolate and uncannily silent, showing a harsh, unlovely countenance like the jaded mask of some sodden reveller, with bleary street-lamps for eyes—all mean and garish in the chilly dusk that foreruns dawn.
Hastily Staff consulted his watch.
Four o’clock!
It occurred to him that the watch needed winding, and he stood for several seconds twisting the stem-crown between thumb and forefinger while stupidly comprehending the fact that he must have been asleep between two and three hours.
Abruptly, in a fit of witless agitation, he crossed to the divan, caught the sleeper by the shoulder and shook him till he wakened—till he rolled over on his back, grunted and opened one eye.
“Look here!” said Staff in a quaver—“I’ve been asleep!”
“You’ve got nothing on me, then,” retorted Iff with pardonable asperity. “All the same—congratulations. Good night.”
He attempted to turn over again, but was restrained by Staff’s imperative hand.