“Right. And about the dummy figure. I’ll make it up directly we come upstairs, and hide it under the bed.”
“Yes. … I think we’d better go completely to bed ourselves. We shan’t take a moment dressing again, and it will give him time to get safely into the passage. Then come into my room.”
“Right. … Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
They went downstairs together.
XVII
Mr. Beverley Takes the Water
Cayley seemed very fond of them that night. After dinner was over, he suggested a stroll outside. They walked up and down the gravel in front of the house, saying very little to each other, until Bill could stand it no longer. For the last twenty turns he had been slowing down hopefully each time they came to the door, but the hint had always been lost on his companions, and each time another turn had been taken. But in the end he had been firm.
“What about a little billiards?” he said, shaking himself free from the others.
“Will you play?” said Antony to Cayley.
“I’ll watch you,” he said, and he had watched them resolutely until the game, and then another game after that, had been played.
They went into the hall and attacked the drinks.
“Well, thank heaven for bed,” said Bill; putting down his glass. “Are you coming?”
“Yes,” said Antony, and finished his drink. He looked at Cayley.
“I’ve just got one or two little things to do,” said Cayley. “I shan’t be long following you.”
“Well, good night, then.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” called Bill from halfway up the stairs. “Good night, Tony.”
“Good night.”
Bill looked at his watch. Half-past eleven. Not much chance of anything happening for another hour. He pulled open a drawer and wondered what to wear on their expedition. Grey flannel trousers, flannel shirt, and a dark coat; perhaps a sweater, as they might be lying out in the copse for some time. And—good idea—a towel. He would want it later on, and meanwhile he could wear it round his waist.
Tennis-shoes. … There. Everything was ready. Now then for the dummy figure.
He looked at his watch again before getting into bed. Twelve-fifteen. How long to wait before Cayley came up? He turned out the light, and then, standing by the door in his pyjamas, waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the new darkness. … He could only just make out the bed in the corner of the room. Cayley would want more light than that if he were to satisfy himself from the door that the bed was occupied. He pulled the curtains a little way back. That was about right. He could have another look later on, when he had the dummy figure in the bed.
How long would it be before Cayley came up? It wasn’t that he wanted his friends, Beverley and Gillingham, to be asleep before he started on his business at the pond; all that he wanted was to be sure that they were safely in their bedrooms. Cayley’s business would make no noise, give no sign, to attract the most wakeful member of the household, so long as the household was really inside the house. But if he wished to reassure himself about his guests, he would have to wait until they were far enough on their way to sleep not to be disturbed by him as he came up to reassure himself. So it amounted to the same thing, really. He would wait until they were asleep … until they were asleep … asleep. …
With a great effort Bill regained the mastery over his wandering thoughts and came awake again. This would never do. It would be fatal if he went to sleep … if he went to sleep … to sleep. … And then, in an instant, he was intensely awake. Suppose Cayley never came at all!
Suppose Cayley was so unsuspicious that, as soon as they had gone upstairs, he had dived down into the passage and set about his business. Suppose, even now, he was at the pond, dropping into it that secret of his. Good heavens, what fools they had been! How could Antony have taken such a risk? Put yourself in Cayley’s place, he had said. But how was it possible? They weren’t Cayley. Cayley was at the pond now. They would never know what he had dropped into it.
Listen! … Somebody at the door. He was asleep. Quite naturally now. Breathe a little more loudly, perhaps. He was asleep. … The door was opening. He could feel it opening behind him. … Good Lord, suppose Cayley really was a murderer! Why, even now he might be—no, he mustn’t think of that. If he thought of that, he would have to turn round. He mustn’t turn round. He was asleep; just peacefully asleep. But why didn’t the door shut? Where was Cayley now? Just behind him? And in his hand—no, he mustn’t think of that. He was asleep. But why didn’t the door shut?
The door was shutting. There was a sigh from the sleeper in the bed, a sigh of relief which escaped him involuntarily. But it had a very natural sound—a deep breath from a heavy sleeper. He added another one to it to make it seem more natural. The door was shut.
Bill counted a hundred slowly and then got up. As quickly and as noiselessly as possible he dressed himself in the dark. He put the dummy figure in the bed, arranged the clothes so that just enough but not too much of it was showing, and stood by the door looking at it. For a casual glance the room was just about light enough. Then very quietly, very slowly he opened the door. All was still. There was no light from beneath the door of Cayley’s room. Very quietly, very carefully he
