“Yes, most people eat and drink and sedenterate themselves—if I may coin a verb—into premature old age.”
Whilst he talked I was wondering how long it would take to suffocate a human being, and what density of smoke was necessary, and whether he was a heavy sleeper, a fact he was good enough to enlighten me on.
“Youth is merely a question of spirits, and spirits are largely if not entirely a question of sleep. No, I have never missed a night’s sleep in my life that I can remember, not even”—he lowered his voice—“when my mother died.”
“You are lucky. I wish I could say as much.”
“Directly my head touches the pillow I am asleep, and I don’t wake till I am called.”
This was indeed good news, that is, if it could be relied upon. It is amazing how people will lie about their own habits. They are a matter of personal delusion to a great extent, and people talking about themselves will, in good faith, deny idiosyncrasies of which their intimates are fully aware.
For aught I could be sure of, Ughtred Gascoyne was a martyr to insomnia, although he certainly did not suggest it.
His bedroom was a light, airy room with very little furniture, and a severe, narrow bed such as is affected by the average English gentleman, and is to me an abomination.
At any rate, this was the room it was my business to set on fire with such completeness as might ensure the passing of Ughtred Gascoyne.
It is the usual habit for those with a weakness for arson to empty paraffin oil over a quantity of furniture, and then set a light to it, a method of procedure that nearly always leads to detection. I remembered when thinking over my plans that Ughtred Gascoyne’s rooms were lighted by lamps and not by electric light. Would this help me in any way? It might. I already foresaw that my nerve and courage would be called into play in this enterprise far more than had hitherto been the case.