“What’s ten per cent on two million?” asked Sam.
§ 3
Valley Fields lay asleep. Clocks had been wound, cats put out of back doors, front doors bolted and chained. In a thousand homes a thousand good householders were restoring their tissues against the labours of another day. The silver-voiced clock on the big tower over the college struck the hour of two.
But though most of its inhabitants were prudently getting their eight hours and insuring that schoolgirl complexion, footsteps still made themselves heard in the silence of Burberry Road. They were those of Sam Shotter of Mon Repos, pacing up and down outside the gate of San Rafael. Long since had Mr. Wrenn, who slept in the front of that house, begun to wish Sam Shotter in bed or dead; but he was a mild and kindly man, loth to shout winged words out of windows. So Sam paced, unrebuked, until presently other footsteps joined in chorus with his and he perceived that he was no longer alone.
A lantern shone upon him.
“Out late, sir,” said the sleepless guardian of the peace behind him.
“Late?” said Sam. Trifles like time meant nothing to him. “Is it late?”
“Just gone two, sir.”
“Oh? Then perhaps I had better be going to bed.”
“Suit yourself, sir. Resident here, sir?”