"You're a real sportsman, Dryden," he said. "I should have been horribly peevish myself if anyone had dragged me out of bed at this unholy hour."
"I generally wake up in an amiable mood," I replied. "It's only a matter of good health and having the right kind of whisky."
I watched him go into his room and close the door, and then, feeling uncommonly thankful that I had not got to be civil to him any longer, I proceeded to follow his example.
I had bungled the business beyond any manner of doubt, and I was so angry with my own stupidity that I very nearly hurled the poker into the grate. It was maddening to think that if I had only displayed an ounce of gumption I might by now have got to the bottom of the whole infernal mystery. Instead of doing this, I had allowed Manning to walk clean out of the trap, and no doubt, in the security of his own room, he was laughing to himself over the easy way in which he had outwitted me.
The only consolation that remained was the fact that there was no further reason for keeping awake. I could at least turn into bed and get a few hours' sleep, with the comforting assurance that I was not neglecting my job. Whatever else Manning might have left in the hall, he would certainly manage to do without it as long as Satan was sitting on the mat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Just gorn 'aff-past eight, sir."
I opened my eyes with some resentment, and found Bascomb standing beside me, a cup of tea in his hand. I blinked at him for a moment and then sat up in bed.
"Might it be you as got up in the night and let Satan in?" he enquired surlily.