"He must have been lying here for some time," I muttered.
Sinclair started.
"Probably some little while before he slept," I pursued. "I have often
heard that he dotes on the firelight."
"I have a notion to wake him," suggested Sinclair.
"It will not be necessary," said I, drawing back, as the heavy figure
stirred, breathed heavily, and finally sat up.
"I beg pardon," I now entreated, backing politely away. "We thought the
room empty."
Mr. Armstrong, who, if slow to receive impressions, is far from lacking
intelligence, eyed us with sleepy indifference for a moment, then rose
ponderously to his feet, and was on the instant the man of manner and
unfailing courtesy we had ever found him.
"What can I do to oblige you?" he asked, his smooth, if hesitating,
tones sounding strange to our excited ears.
I made haste to forestall Sinclair, who was racking his brains for words
with which to propound the question he dared not put too boldly.
"Pardon me, Mr. Armstrong, we were looking about for a small pin dropped
by Miss Camerden." (How hard it was for me to use her name in this
connection only my own heart knew.) "She was in here just now, was she
not?"
The courteous gentleman bowed, hemmed, and smiled a very polite but
unmeaning smile. Evidently he had not the remotest notion whether she
had been in or not.
"I am sorry, but I am afraid I lost myself for a moment on that lounge,"
he admitted. "The firelight always makes me sleepy. But if I can help
you," he cried, starting forward, but almost immediately pausing again
and giving us rather a curious look. "Some one was in the room. I
remember it now. It was just before the warmth and glow of the fire
became too much for me. I cannot say that it was Miss Camerden, however.
I thought it was some one of quicker movement. She made quite a rattle
with the chairs."