Rousing at last from a heavy dreamless sleep the judge was aware of a faint impalpable light in his room, the ashen light of a dull October dawn.  He was aware, too, of a feeling of profound depression.  He knew this was the aftermath of indulgence and that he might look forward to forty-eight hours of utter misery of soul, and, groaning aloud, he closed his eyes, Sleep was the thing if he could compass it.  Instead, his memory quickened.  Something was to happen at sunup—­he could not recall what it was to be, though he distinctly remembered that Mahaffy had spoken of this very matter—­Mahaffy, the austere and implacable, the disembodied conscience whose fealty to duty had somehow survived his own spiritual ruin, so that he had become a sort of moral sign-post, ever pointing the way yet never going it himself.  The judge lay still and thought deeply as the light intensified itself.  What was it that Mahaffy had said he was to do at sun-up?  The very hour accented his suspicions.  Probably it was no more than some cheerless obligation to be met, or Mahaffy would not have been so concerned about it.  Eventually he decided to refer everything to Mahaffy.  He spoke his friend’s name weakly and in a shaking voice, but received no answer.

“Solomon!” he repeated, and shifting his position, looked in what should have been the direction of the shake-down bed his friend occupied.  Neither the bed nor Mahaffy were there.  The judge gasped he wondered if this were not a premonition of certain hallucinations to which he was not a stranger.  Then all in a flash he remembered Fentress and the meeting at Boggs’, something of how the evening had been spent, and a spasm of regret shook him.

“I had other things to think of.  This must never happen again!” he told himself remorsefully.

He was wide-awake now.  Doubtless Pegloe had put him to bed.  Well, that had been thoughtful of Pegloe—­he would not forget him—­the City Tavern should continue to enjoy his patronage.  It would be something for Pegloe to boast of that judge Slocum Price Turberville always made his place headquarters when in Raleigh.  Feeling that he had already conferred wealth and distinction on the fortunate Pegloe the judge thrust his fat legs over the side of his bed and stood erect.  Stooping he reached for his clothes.  He confidently expected to find them on the floor, but his hand merely swept an uncarpeted waste.  The judge was profoundly astonished.

“Maybe I’ve got ’em on, I don’t recall taking them off!” he thought hopefully.  He moved uncertainly in the direction of the window where the light showed him his own bare extremities.  He reverted to his original idea that his clothes were scattered about the floor.

He was beginning to experience a great sense of haste, it was two miles to Boggs’ and Fentress would be there at sun-up.  Finally he abandoned his quest of the missing garments and turned to the door.  To say that he was amazed when he found it locked would have most inadequately described his emotions.  Breathing deep, he fell back a step or two, and then with all the vigor he could muster launched himself at the door.  But it resisted him.  “It’s bolted on the other side!” he muttered, the full measure of Pegloe’s perfidy revealing itself to his mind.