But Dicky was doubtless asleep or he must have heard those creaking stairs!  Then there was still a chance.  He might creep into the room and take the candle without waking him.  He was gaining confidence by the prolonged silence.  Dicky must certainly be fast asleep.

With considerably greater steadiness than he had yet achieved he returned to the open door and peeped stealthily in.

Yes, Dick was there.  He had flung himself down at the table on which he had set the candle, and he was lying across it with his head on his arms.  Asleep of course!  That could be the only explanation of such an attitude.  Yet Robin in the act of advancing, stopped in sudden doubt with a scared backward movement, his eyes upon one of Dick’s hands that was clenched convulsively and quivering as if he were in pain.  It certainly did not look like the hand of a man asleep.

The next moment Robin’s ungainly form had knocked against the door-handle and Dick was sitting upright looking at him.  His face was grey, he looked unutterably tired, his mouth had the stark grimness of the man who endures, asking nothing of Fate.

“Hullo, boy!” he said.  “Why aren’t you in bed?” Then seeing Robin’s unmistakably hang-dog air, “Oh, I forgot!  Go on upstairs!  I’m coming.”

Robin turned about like a kicked dog.  But the driving force stopped him on the threshold.  He stood a second or two, then turned again with a species of sullen courage.

“May I have the candle?” he said, not looking at Dick.

“What for?” said Dick.  “Haven’t you got one upstairs?”

Robin stood a moment or two debating with himself, then made a second movement to go.  “All right.  I’ll fetch it.”

“Wait a minute!” Dick’s voice compelled.  “What do you want a candle down here for?”

Robin backed against the door-post with a kind of heavy defiance.  “Want to get something—­out of the kitchen,” he muttered.

“What do you want to get?” said Dick.

Robin was silent, stubbornly, insistently silent, the fingers of one hand working with agitated activity.

“Robin!”

It was the voice of authority.  He had to respond to it.  He made a lumbering gesture towards the speaker, but his eyes remained obstinately lowered under the shag of hair that hung over his forehead.

Dick sat for a few seconds looking at him, then with a sudden sigh that caught him unawares he got up.

“What did you come down for?  Tell me!” he said.

His tone was absolutely quiet, but something in his utterance or the sigh that preceded it—­or possibly some swiftly-piercing light of intuition—­seemed to send a galvanizing current through Robin.  With clumsy impulsiveness he came to Dick and stood before him.

“I was going—­to get you—­something to eat,” he said, speaking with tremendous effort.  “You must be—­pretty near starving—­and I forgot.”  He paused to fling a nervous look upwards.  “I thought you were asleep.  I didn’t know—­or I wouldn’t have done it.  I—­didn’t mean to get in the way.”  His voice broke oddly.  He began to tremble.  “I’ll go now,” he said.