"Daphne, God bless her!" answered De Courcy.
Derwent watched him stealthily while he drank, smiling when he set down the empty tumbler.
They remained together smoking for a quarter of an hour, Derwent finishing the story which had been the means of his coming in. De Courcy seemed to lose interest in it, and at its close, after yawning once or twice, laughed.
"I am awfully sorry, but I've grown uncommonly sleepy. The effect of the moor air, I expect," he said.
Derwent rose.
"My dear fellow, don't let me keep you up. I suffer from insomnia so much that I would not willingly rob a man of a minute's sleep. Good-night, and thanks. I can find my way out."
De Courcy protested, but Derwent was determined, and stumbled out into the darkness. For a short while he examined the porch.
"It is dry enough," he muttered. "In half an hour he will be fast asleep. Nothing will wake him—nothing shall wake him! How the wind blows! It blew like this when I shot Black Dan by the Dumper's Claim. Why do I think of that now? I must get back at once—there is little time to be lost."
He strode in the direction of his own house. The butler only was awake.
"I am very tired, John. I shall go to my room now. Lock up."