I went back to the doctor; we had a social glass of cold brandy-and-water together; I lighted another cigar, and took my leave.  My host being too respectable a man not to keep early country hours, I went away, as usual, about ten.  The mysterious man-servant locked the gate behind me.  I sauntered on the road back to Barkingham for about five minutes, then struck off sharp for the plantation, lighted my lantern with the help of my cigar and a brimstone match of that barbarous period, shut down the slide again, and made for the garden wall.

It was formidably high, and garnished horribly with broken bottles; but it was also old, and when I came to pick at the mortar with my screw-driver, I found it reasonably rotten with age and damp.

I removed four bricks to make footholes in different positions up the wall.  It was desperately hard and long work, easy as it may sound in description—­especially when I had to hold on by the top of the wall, with my flat opera hat (as we used to call it in those days) laid, as a guard, between my hand and the glass, while I cleared a way through the sharp bottle-ends for my other hand and my knees.  This done, my great difficulty was vanquished; and I had only to drop luxuriously into a flower-bed on the other side of the wall.

Perfect stillness in the garden:  no sign of a light anywhere at the back of the house:  first-floor windows all shut:  second-floor windows still open.  I fetched the pruning-ladder; put it against the side of the porch; tied one end of my bit of rope to the top round of it; took the other end in my mouth, and prepared to climb to the balcony over the porch by the thick vine branches and the trellis-work.

No man who has had any real experience of life can have failed to observe how amazingly close, in critical situations, the grotesque and the terrible, the comic and the serious, contrive to tread on each other’s heels.  At such times, the last thing we ought properly to think of comes into our heads, or the least consistent event that could possibly be expected to happen does actually occur.  When I put my life in danger on that memorable night, by putting my foot on the trellis-work, I absolutely thought of the never-dying Lady Malkinshaw plunged in refreshing slumber, and of the frantic exclamations Mr. Batterbury would utter if he saw what her ladyship’s grandson was doing with his precious life and limbs at that critical moment.  I am no hero—­I was fully aware of the danger to which I was exposing myself; and yet I protest that I caught myself laughing under my breath, with the most outrageous inconsistency, at the instant when I began the ascent of the trellis-work.

I reached the balcony over the porch in safety, depending more upon the tough vine branches than the trellis-work during my ascent.  My next employment was to pull up the pruning-ladder, as softly as possible, by the rope which I held attached to it.  This done, I put the ladder against the house wall, listened, measured the distance to the open second-floor window with my eye, listened again—­and, finding all quiet, began my second and last ascent.  The ladder was comfortably long, and I was conveniently tall; my hand was on the window-sill—­I mounted another two rounds—­and my eyes were level with the interior of the room.