Greensea Island: A Mystery of the Essex CoastBridges, Victor
General
Greensea Island: A Mystery of the Essex Coast
Bridges, Victor
Adventure stories; Detective and mystery stories; England -- Fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction
Having guarded against the possibility of this disaster, I proceeded
to make myself comfortable for the evening. Tired as I was, I had no
intention of going to bed as long as there was any reasonable chance
of Bascomb's return. Even if I did so, I should certainly be unable
to sleep, and I should probably have the additional joy of being
hauled out in the middle of the night in order to unbolt the door and
let him into the house.
So, providing myself with one of Uncle Richard's biggest cigars, I
refilled my glass again, and wheeled the sofa round in front of the
fire. Then, taking Manning's revolver out of my pocket, I laid it
carefully on the table beside my tumbler. Although its original
owner might still be too indisposed to threaten any immediate danger,
there were always Craill and de Roda to be considered. Either of
them might take it into his head to pay me a surprise call, and,
mentally afflicted as I believed them both to be, they were the sort
of visitors for whom it was just as well to be fully prepared.
The warmth and stillness of the room soon began to affect me with
such a pleasant sense of drowsiness that I found some difficulty in
keeping myself awake. In order to assist in the process, I started
going over again in my own mind the whole tangled skein of events
which had led up to the present crisis. It was an interesting
exercise, and, apart from that, it served a double purpose. I was
determined to make a clean breast of everything to Bobby the next
morning, and, if his advice was to be of any value, it was highly
essential that the version I gave him should be an absolutely correct
and unprejudiced one.
Ten, eleven, and twelve all struck in turn, but outside the house the
silence of the night remained unbroken by the faintest sound or
movement. Towards one o'clock my desire for sleep became positively
overwhelming. By this time any hope I had ever had of Bascomb's
putting in an appearance had practically ceased to exist, and it
seemed worse than useless to tire myself out to no purpose just when
I might need every ounce of energy and intelligence that I could
possibly rake together.
I debated for a moment as to whether I should go upstairs and get
into bed. The prospect had its attractions, but, on the other hand,
I felt extremely comfortable where I was, and from a strategic point
of view the position could hardly be improved upon. As long as I
remained in the hall no one could break into the house without waking
me. If I were fast asleep upstairs in my bedroom the odds would be
altogether in favour of the visitor, and since the safety of my
throat appeared to be the stake at issue, this consideration was
quite enough to turn the scale.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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