He leaned from the window, looking downward. "Why, THERE you are!" he
exclaimed, and turned to address some invisible person within the room.
"He's right there, underneath the window. I'll bring him up." He leaned
out again. "Wait there, Simpledoria!" he called. "I'll be down in a
jiffy and let you in."

Puzzled, I stared at the vacant lawn before me. The clear moonlight
revealed it brightly, and it was empty of any living presence; there
were no bushes nor shrubberies--nor even shadows--that could have been
mistaken for a boy, if "Simpledoria" WAS a boy. There was no dog in
sight; there was no cat; there was nothing beneath the window except
thick, close-cropped grass.

A light shone in the hallway behind the broad front doors; one of these
was opened, and revealed in silhouette the tall, thin figure of a man in
a long, old-fashioned dressing-gown.

"Simpledoria," he said, addressing the night air with considerable
severity, "I don't know what to make of you. You might have caught your
death of cold, roving out at such an hour. But there," he continued,
more indulgently; "wipe your feet on the mat and come in. You're safe
NOW!"

He closed the door, and I heard him call to some one up-stairs, as he
rearranged the fastenings:

"Simpledoria is all right--only a little chilled. I'll bring him up to
your fire."