As things turned out, I think we should have contrived to get through the rest of the day successfully, even without the help of Uncle Richard's well-stocked cellar. Although Bobby had heard my story from start to finish, there were still so many points on which he was anxious for further enlightenment that it took me all my time to answer his innumerable questions. He cross-examined me with a dogged persistence that would have done credit to a prosecuting counsel, and in more than one instance I was extraordinarily impressed by the shrewdness and insight of his comments. At seven o'clock we adjourned the discussion in favour of a scratch meal, which consisted chiefly of champagne and biscuits. The former being Pol Roget of a particularly good vintage, we were able to give Bobby's nutriment theory a really convincing test. It worked out most successfully, for resuming our conversation over a couple of cigars, we talked on for the next two hours without the faintest feeling of exhaustion. About ten Bobby glanced at his watch. "You'd better turn in now," he remarked firmly. "You've got a long day ahead of you, and the more sleep you have the better." "Hang it all!" I protested. "I'm not going to dodge my share of the work. Somebody's got to keep awake." "That will be all right," he interrupted. "I shall have nothing to do to-morrow after you're gone. If I want to I can sleep the whole blessed morning." "But how about to-night?" I persisted. "Suppose Manning and Craill pay us a visit?" Bobby smiled grimly, and, putting his hand in his hip pocket, pulled out a vicious-looking Mauser pistol. "You'll probably hear the shooting," he replied. "You can come down in your pyjamas and help me throw out the bodies." I saw that it would be a waste of time to argue any further, so, having made sure that he was provided with plenty of smokes and drinks, I assisted him to close the shutters and lock up the house. This done, I wished him a pleasant vigil, and, retiring upstairs to my own room, I was soon safely between the sheets, with Manning's Smith and Wesson tucked away under the pillow beneath my head. I must have dropped off on the spot, for the next thing I remember is suddenly sitting up in bed and finding Bobby standing beside me with a cup of tea in his hand. He had drawn back the curtain, and the grey light of early day was coming in through the open window. "Here you are, my son," he remarked cheerfully. "You shove this down your neck and tumble out at once. It's getting on for six o'clock." "Anything happened?" I enquired. "I've been sleeping like a log." "The champagne's finished," he announced with a grin. "There's no other news that I can think of at the moment." I gulped down the tea, and, scrambling out of bed, proceeded to commence a hasty toilet, while Bobby, who looked very unshaven and disreputable, seated himself on the window sill and puffed contentedly at a cigarette.