"I am one of those mortals who have an uncomfortable habit of turning night into day," remarked the elder man as he clasped his guest's fingers. "I usually sit up till dawn is in the sky, and, as a consequence, I sleep till late in the forenoon. As you tell me that you want to be on your way at an early hour, I had better, perhaps, say both good-night and good-bye here and now----Ah, a mouse!"
Frank Nevill gave a backward spring, and a little frightened cry escaped his lips. Next moment the blood rushed to his face, and he felt as if he could have bitten his tongue out for betraying him as it had.
But Mr. Ellerslie seemed to have noticed nothing. "We have not many such vermin, I am happy to say," he resumed after a momentary pause. "But these old country houses are seldom altogether free of them."
And so presently they parted.
Mrs. Dobson was awaiting Nevill at the head of the stairs. "Your room, sir, is the third door on the left down the corridor," she said. "At what hour would you be pleased to like breakfast?"
"Will eight o'clock be too early?"
"No hour you may name will be either too early or too late, sir."
"Then eight o'clock let it be."
Thereupon the woman curtsied, wished him a respectful good-night, and left him.
As soon as he found himself in the room indicated, and with the door not merely shut but locked, he sat down with an air of weariness, almost of despondency. Body and brain were alike tired out, yet never had he felt more wakeful than at that moment. Even had he been in the habit of trying to analyze his emotions, which he certainly was not, the effort to do so would have puzzled him just then. The bitter consciousness that he had failed in the endeavor for which he had risked so much was always with him, lurking, as it were, in the background of his brain. He felt it like a dull, persistent ache which never quite let go its hold of him, whatever other subject might be occupying the forefront of his thoughts. And then, there were all the other events of the day just ended, which----