Somewhat relieved by this outbreak, I again retired to bed. As a sleeping draught, however, I found that Lady Baradell was a distinct failure. For a couple of hours at least I must have tossed about restlessly, turning over in my mind every aspect of this new development which threatened to complicate still further my already harassed path. Indeed, it was only sheer physical fatigue that at last closed my eyes in a welcome unconsciousness.
Sleep, however brief, always has the excellent effect of restoring me to my natural cheerfulness. I woke up next morning as buoyant as though no midnight reception had interfered with my customary eight hours. The morning sun was blazing into my room through the open window, and a discreet-looking man-servant was laying out my bath.
"Would you like it hot or cold, sir?" he inquired.
"Cold, this weather, I think," said I. "What time is breakfast?"
"Nine o'clock, sir. It's just gone a quarter to eight now."
"Good," I observed approvingly. This gave me plenty of time to make my toilet like a gentleman and get out and see Billy in the roadway, before joining the rest of the party over their eggs and bacon.
It was exactly half-past, by the clock on the mantelpiece, as I left my room. I went downstairs quietly and quickly, for I had no wish to run into Maurice or anyone else, and made my way across the garden and out through a small side gate into the main road. The birds were singing gaily in the hedges, and out of a blue sky the sun shone down with the most comforting warmth. As the Yankees say, I "felt good"—distinctly good.
Billy was sitting on a bank just round the first corner, smoking his pipe. He waved me a cheerful greeting.
"They've not scragged you in the night, then," he said with satisfaction.
"On the contrary, Billy," I said, "I have met with nothing but affection and kindness." I seated myself beside him and sniffed critically. "I don't think much of your 'baccy," I added.