A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room, smoking a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct taps at the door, which he recognized as the peculiar signal of Dobbs. It was nearly an hour past midnight, and in that early household every one had been long abed, or, at least, had retired long ago to their own rooms.
Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by no means infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier hour than on the present occasion.
“Come in, Dobbs,” said Lionel. “You are later to-night than usual.”
“Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago, that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master took to walking in his sleep.”
“Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my instructions.”
“Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast asleep.”
“In which direction did he go?”
“He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and let himself out through the little glass door into the garden.”
“And then which way did he go?”
“I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you.”