Midnight had sounded some time, when, impelled by uneasy
suspicions, Silas opened his bedroom door and peered into the
passage. It was dimly illuminated by a single jet of gas; and some
distance off he perceived a man sleeping on the floor in the
costume of an hotel under-servant. Silas drew near the man on
tiptoe. He lay partly on his back, partly on his side, and his
right forearm concealed his face from recognition. Suddenly, while
the American was still bending over him, the sleeper removed his
arm and opened his eyes, and Silas found himself once more face to
face with the loiterer of Box Court.

"Good-night, sir," said the man, pleasantly.

But Silas was too profoundly moved to find an answer, and regained
his room in silence.

Towards morning, worn out by apprehension, he fell asleep on his
chair, with his head forward on the trunk. In spite of so
constrained an attitude and such a grisly pillow, his slumber was
sound and prolonged, and he was only awakened at a late hour and by
a sharp tapping at the door.

He hurried to open, and found the boots without.

"You are the gentleman who called yesterday at Box Court?" he
asked.

Silas, with a quaver, admitted that he had done so.

"Then this note is for you," added the servant, proffering a sealed