“Certainly not, sir.”
He rose, and staggered a little, but crossed to the broad mantel-shelf in the great chimney-breast, rested his arm upon it for a moment, passed his hand over the dark wood with a sort of caress, then bent his eyes upon the floor littered with books and drawings and papers torn from the cabinets and all splashed with tallow and wax from the candles. The daylight had increased until the havoc wrought by the night’s visitors was fully apparent. The marauders had made a sorry mess of the room, and I thought Bates’ lip quivered as he saw the wreck.
“It would have been a blow to Mr. Glenarm; the room was his pride,—his pride, sir.”
He went out toward the kitchen, and I ran up stairs to my own room. I cursed the folly that had led me to leave my window open, for undoubtedly Morgan and his new ally, St. Agatha’s gardener, had taken advantage of it to enter the house. Quite likely, too, they had observed my absence, and this would undoubtedly be communicated to Pickering. I threw open my door and started back with an exclamation of amazement.
Standing at my chiffonnier, between two windows, was a man, clad in a bath-gown—my own, I saw with fury—his back to me, the razor at his face, placidly shaving himself.
Without turning he addressed me, quite coolly and casually, as though his being there was the most natural thing in the world.
“Good morning, Mr. Glenarm! Rather damaging evidence, that costume. I suppose it’s the custom of the country for gentlemen in evening clothes to go out by the window and return by the door. You might think the other way round preferable.”
“Larry!” I shouted.
“Jack!”
“Kick that door shut and lock it,” he commanded, in a sharp, severe tone that I remembered well—and just now welcomed—in him.