Pendleton shook his head in the gloom.

“I’m afraid not,” said he, hopelessly.  “Somehow a weak man makes a great appeal to the woman who has grown to care for him.  He arouses her mother instinct.  And Edyth is so strong that her pity—­”

“May induce her to do her utmost to see him through this trouble,” interrupted Ashton-Kirk.  “But it may not carry her much further.  When once the thing is over, a reaction may set in.  Who knows?”

But Pendleton refused to be comforted.  For a long time they talked of Edyth Vale, Morris, and the killing of Hume.  Finally Pendleton said: 

“I suppose we can’t smoke here to-night, can we?”

“No; the lights might be seen; and we can’t tell what sharp eyes are watching the place.”

Pendleton sighed drearily.

There were many clocks in the rooms; the policemen must have amused themselves by winding and setting them; for at the end of each hour they began to strike, singly and in pairs.  The brisk strokes of the nervous little modern clock mingled with the solemn sonorous beat of an old New England timepiece whose wooden works creaked and labored complainingly.  Elaborate Swiss chimes pealed from others; through the darkness, a persistent cuckoo could be heard throwing open a small shutter and stridently announcing his version of the time.

It was some time after midnight that Pendleton began to yawn.  Then Ashton-Kirk said: 

“Open some of those blankets, Pen, and lie down.  There is no need of two of us watching to-night; I scarcely expect anything to happen.”

Pendleton did not expect anything, either, but he said: 

“All right, I will, if you’ll wake me in a few hours and let me take a turn at it.”

Ashton-Kirk agreed.  Pendleton stretched himself upon the sofa, and soon his deep breathing told that he was asleep.  As the night drew on, the solitary watcher grew chilled in the unheated rooms and huddled himself into another blanket; but he sat near the door leading to the hall, which was slightly ajar; and though his eyes closed sometimes in weariness, he never lost a sound in the street or a tick of one of the clocks.  Through the entire night he watched and waited almost without moving; it was not until the dawn of a gray, dirty day began to somewhat lighten the room that he aroused Pendleton.  The latter expostulated sleepily when he noted the time; but with scarcely a word the investigator took his place upon the sofa and dropped off to sleep.

About nine o’clock he awoke and found his friend arranging their breakfast upon a small table.

“I say, Kirk,” said Pendleton, admiringly, “you did this thing rather thoroughly.  There’s quite a tasty little snack here; and the thermos bottles have kept the coffee steaming.”

At the water tap in the rear the investigator bathed his hands and face; then he sat down with his friend and did complete justice to the breakfast.  Afterwards, with their cigars going nicely and a feeling of comfort stealing over them in spite of the rather uncomfortable night, Pendleton said: