‘Landlord, I’m going to bed,’ says Derrick, who has suddenly returned to his original gruffness.
‘Very good, sir,’ is the reply of the host, who forthwith trims and lights an atom of a lamp which he fishes out of a cupboard by the fireplace. ‘I hope you will sleep well, sir.’
Derrick’s eyes are watching the innkeeper from under his beetling brows, and he answers gruffly: ‘I hope so.’
‘I’ve heard it said,’ goes on the loquacious host, ‘that a good sleep is worth a fortune to an over-tired man. I see nothing to prevent you sleeping well here, sir.’
‘Not much likelihood of being roused in the night, eh?’ remarks the attendant.
‘Why, no, sir,’ answers Dipping, wondering what motive his guest could have in asking such a question. ‘There’s no one to disturb you here, unless, indeed, it be your master himself.’
‘Many visitors here?’ inquired Derrick, as old Hobb leads the way up the dusky, creaking staircase with the flickering lamp in his hand.
‘None at all, sir,’ replied the landlord in a melancholy tone. ‘There never is any one here—leastways, very, very seldom. I haven’t had a visitor stopping in this house for a matter of—I can’t rightly say how long; but I know it’s a mortal long while, for since my poor wife died’——
‘Is this my room?’ interrupts Derrick, as the innkeeper halts before a solid-looking black door at the head of the staircase.
‘It is,’ answers old Dipping. ‘You are pretty close to your master, sir.’