"Hang it all!" I protested. "I'm not going to dodge my share of the work. Somebody's got to keep awake."
"That will be all right," he interrupted. "I shall have nothing to do to-morrow after you're gone. If I want to I can sleep the whole blessed morning."
"But how about to-night?" I persisted. "Suppose Manning and Craill pay us a visit?"
Bobby smiled grimly, and, putting his hand in his hip pocket, pulled out a vicious-looking Mauser pistol.
"You'll probably hear the shooting," he replied. "You can come down in your pyjamas and help me throw out the bodies."
I saw that it would be a waste of time to argue any further, so, having made sure that he was provided with plenty of smokes and drinks, I assisted him to close the shutters and lock up the house. This done, I wished him a pleasant vigil, and, retiring upstairs to my own room, I was soon safely between the sheets, with Manning's Smith and Wesson tucked away under the pillow beneath my head.
I must have dropped off on the spot, for the next thing I remember is suddenly sitting up in bed and finding Bobby standing beside me with a cup of tea in his hand. He had drawn back the curtain, and the grey light of early day was coming in through the open window.
"Here you are, my son," he remarked cheerfully. "You shove this down your neck and tumble out at once. It's getting on for six o'clock."
"Anything happened?" I enquired. "I've been sleeping like a log."
"The champagne's finished," he announced with a grin. "There's no other news that I can think of at the moment."