The road in advance from Basle to Neuchatel was better than had been represented.  The latest weather had done it good.  Drivers, both of horses and mules, had come in that evening after dark, and had reported nothing more difficult to be overcome than trials of patience, harness, wheels, axles, and whipcord.  A bargain was soon struck for a carriage and horses, to take them on in the morning, and to start before daylight.

“Do you lock your door at night when travelling?” asked Obenreizer, standing warming his hands by the wood fire in Vendale’s chamber, before going to his own.

“Not I. I sleep too soundly.”

“You are so sound a sleeper?” he retorted, with an admiring look.  “What a blessing!”

“Anything but a blessing to the rest of the house,” rejoined Vendale, “if I had to be knocked up in the morning from the outside of my bedroom door.”

“I, too,” said Obenreizer, “leave open my room.  But let me advise you, as a Swiss who knows:  always, when you travel in my country, put your papers—­and, of course, your money—­under your pillow.  Always the same place.”

“You are not complimentary to your countrymen,” laughed Vendale.

“My countrymen,” said Obenreizer, with that light touch of his friend’s elbows by way of Good-Night and benediction, “I suppose are like the majority of men.  And the majority of men will take what they can get.  Adieu!  At four in the morning.”

“Adieu!  At four.”

Left to himself, Vendale raked the logs together, sprinkled over them the white wood-ashes lying on the hearth, and sat down to compose his thoughts.  But they still ran high on their latest theme, and the running of the river tended to agitate rather than to quiet them.  As he sat thinking, what little disposition he had had to sleep departed.  He felt it hopeless to lie down yet, and sat dressed by the fire.  Marguerite, Wilding, Obenreizer, the business he was then upon, and a thousand hopes and doubts that had nothing to do with it, occupied his mind at once.  Everything seemed to have power over him but slumber.  The departed disposition to sleep kept far away.

He had sat for a long time thinking, on the hearth, when his candle burned down and its light went out.  It was of little moment; there was light enough in the fire.  He changed his attitude, and, leaning his arm on the chair-back, and his chin upon that hand, sat thinking still.

But he sat between the fire and the bed, and, as the fire flickered in the play of air from the fast-flowing river, his enlarged shadow fluttered on the white wall by the bedside.  His attitude gave it an air, half of mourning and half of bending over the bed imploring.  His eyes were observant of it, when he became troubled by the disagreeable fancy that it was like Wilding’s shadow, and not his own.

A slight change of place would cause it to disappear.  He made the change, and the apparition of his disturbed fancy vanished.  He now sat in the shade of a little nook beside the fire, and the door of the room was before him.