“Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago, that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master took to walking in his sleep.” “Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my instructions.” “Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast asleep.” “In which direction did he go?” “He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and let himself out through the little glass door into the garden.” “And then which way did he go?” “I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you.” “Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to take?” “There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the Wizard’s Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the place to which he has gone.” “We must follow him, Dobbs.” “Yes, sir.” “We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him.” “Yes, sir.” “I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets back to the house?” “None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and soberly as if he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does really wake up in the morning, he never seems to know anything about what has happened over-night. But we must make haste, sir, if we wish to overtake him.” “I will be ready in one minute.” Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap on his head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the open air. The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above the tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint old house in its white glory, but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in deepest shadow. Nowhere could they discern the figure of the man whom they had come out to follow; but the Wizard’s Fountain was a good half mile from the Hall, so they struck at once into the nearest footway that led towards it. A few minutes’ quick walking took them there. Lionel knew the place well. It had been a favourite haunt of his when living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks that preceded the murder. Very weird and solemn the whole place looked, as seen by moonlight at that still hour of the night. Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows immediately over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted of beech, and oak, and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and fantastic: untended and uncared for—growing together year after year, whispering their leafy secrets to each other with every spring that came round, and standing shoulder to shoulder against the winds of winter: a hoary brotherhood of forest sages.