"He's a very light sleeper as a rule," replied Allerdyke. He stood
listening for the sound of some movement in the room: "Knock again," he
said, when a minute had passed without response on the part of the
occupant. "Make it a bit louder."

The night-porter, with evident unwillingness, repeated his summons, this
time loud enough to wake any ordinary sound sleeper. But no sound came
from within the room, and after a third and much louder thumping at the
door, Allerdyke grew impatient and suspicious.

"This is queer!" he growled. "My cousin's one of the lightest sleepers I
ever knew. If he's in there, there's something wrong. Look here! you'll
have to open that door. Haven't you got a key?"

"Key'll be inside, sir," replied the night-porter. "But there's a
master-key to all these doors in the office. Shall I fetch it, then?"

"Do!" said Allerdyke, curtly. He began to walk up and down the corridor
when the man had hurried away, wondering what this soundness of sleep
in his cousin meant. James Allerdyke was not a man who took either drink
or drugs, and Marshall's experience of him was that the least sound
awoke him.

"Queer!" he repeated as he marched up and down. "Perhaps he's not--"

The quiet opening of a door close by made him lift his eyes from the
carpet. In the dim light he saw a man looking out upon him--a man of an
unusually thick crop of hair and with a huge beard. He stared at
Allerdyke half angrily, half sulkily; then he closed his door as quietly