At the door he called loudly.

“Let us in at once, Tom, please!  I am much annoyed!  If this is a jest, it has gone far enough—­and too far!  I blame you severely!”

But none replied.  Absolute silence held the Grey Room.

Then came the footman with a frail of tools.  The task could not be performed in a moment, and Sir Walter, desirous above all things to create no uneasiness at the breakfast-table, determined to go down again.  But he was too late, for his daughter had already suspected something.  She was not anxious but puzzled that her husband tarried.  She came up the stairs with a letter.

“I’m going to find Tom,” she said.  “It’s not like him to be so lazy.  Here’s a letter from the ship, and I’m awfully afraid he may have to go back.”

“Mary,” said her father, “come here a moment.”

He drew her under a great window which threw light into the corridor.

“You must summon your nerve and pluck, my girl!  I’m very much afraid that something has gone amiss with Tom.  I know nothing yet, but last night, it seems, after we had gone to bed, he and Henry determined that one of them should sleep in the Grey Room.”

“Father!  Was he there, and I so near him—­sleeping in the very next room?”

“He was there—­and is there.  He is not well.  Henry saw him looking out of the window five minutes ago, but he was, I fear, unconscious.”

“Let me go to him,” she said.

“I will do so first.  It will be wiser.  Run down and ask Ernest to join me.  Do not be alarmed; I dare say it is nothing at all.”

Her habit of obedience prompted her to do as he desired instantly, but she descended like lightning, called Travers, and returned with him.

“I will ask you to come in with me, Ernest,” explained Sir Walter.  “My son-in-law slept in the Grey Room last night, and he does not respond to our calls this morning.  The door is locked and we are breaking it open.”

“But you expressly refused him permission to do so, Walter.”

“I did—­you heard me.  Let sleeping dogs lie is a very good motto, but young men will be young men.  I hope, however, nothing serious—­”

He stopped, for Caunter had forced the door and burst it inward with a crash.  During the moment’s silence that followed they heard the key spring into the room and strike the wainscot.  The place was flooded with sunshine, and seemed to welcome them with genial light and attractive art.  The furniture revealed its rich grain and beautiful modelling; the cherubs carved on the great chairs seemed to dance where the light flashed on their little, rounded limbs.  The silvery walls were bright, and the huge roses that tumbled over them appeared to revive and display their original color at the touch of the sun.

On a chair beside the bed stood an extinguished candle, Tom’s watch, and Henry’s revolver.  The sailor’s dressing-gown was still folded where he had placed it; his rug was at the foot of the bed.  He himself knelt in the recess at the open window upon the settee that ran beneath.  His position was natural; one arm held the window-ledge and steadied him, and his back was turned to Sir Walter and Travers, who first entered the room.