No; sleep would not come. Perhaps if he put the revolver under his head the sense of security its presence afforded would soothe him into slumber.
He got up and took the weapon out of the back pocket of his coat. He poised it in his hand, and looked at it with mingled feelings of timidity and admiration. He cocked it, and took aim at spots on the wall paper a few inches above the level of his own eye. "If Ray were there now, and I pulled this trigger, he would be a dead man in less than a minute. I do not want to kill him. I should not fire except in self-defence. But if I thought he meant any harm, I'd save my life and put an end to his--the murderous-minded scoundrel!"
With the utmost care he lowered the hammer and, thrusting the revolver under his pillow, lay down again.
No; he did not feel any inclination to sleep. He counted a thousand; he watched a large flock of sheep go one by one through a gap; he repeated all the poetry he knew by rote, and found himself as wakeful as ever.
He tumbled and tossed about, and poured out maledictions on his miserable condition. He had not had experience of such a state before. Until to-day he had possessed the power of going to sleep at will. He had never lain awake an hour in his life. This was most tantalising, most exasperating. He should not be fresh for the cards to-night. He should be heavy and drowsy when he wanted to be clear and bright. How could he be fresh enough to play if he did not get rest?
Could it be the burden of this money was too great for him? Was he really apprehensive of being robbed? Brereton had told him it was dangerous to carry so large an amount in cash about with him. Had Brereton's words sunken into his mind, and were they now working on him unawares? No one could gainsay the wisdom of Brereton's caution. It was a dangerous thing to go about the streets of London with three thousand pounds in one's pocket. But there was nothing else for it. He would not put the money in an English bank, for he could not get an introduction without betraying himself, his presence in London, and telling more of his affairs than he desired. Lodging it in the Richmond bank was quite out of the question.
It was maddening to feel he could not sleep. Could it really be he was, unknown to himself, in dread of being plundered if he lost consciousness?
He opened his eyes and looked around him. Then, with an angry exclamation, he sprang up.
"What an idiot I have been," he cried, "to leave the door unlocked! My reason must be going when I could be guilty of such folly."
He turned the key in the lock. He looked around the room. He had shut the window to keep out the voices of the children, but he had omitted to fasten it down. He hasped it now. Then he went to the chair on which his coat lay, took the bundle of notes out of his breast-pocket, and thrust it under the pillow of the bed beside the revolver. He looked at his watch. "One o'clock," he muttered. "Now for an hour and a half's sleep. I shall wake fresh, and then be off to town."