I should have to trust to my own invention. Ughtred Gascoyne had asked me to call on him, and early one Sunday morning I did so. He occupied an upper part in Albemarle Street. There was a side door and a flight of stairs leading to his rooms. I immediately grasped the importance of the fact that there was no porter or lift. He had a manservant who slept on the floor above his own, and a woman who came in in the daytime. The establishment was thus conveniently miniature. On the first floor he had a sitting-room that led into his bedroom, with a bathroom beyond. Above this was his dining-room, which was seldom used; also a kitchen and a very small bedroom for his servant. The place was old, curiously so for such a smart quarter of the town, and, I imagined, highly combustible. The rooms were too solidly furnished for my purpose, but they had muslin curtains and a fair number of knick-knacks. I quite realised that it was an off chance, but at the same time I believed it could be carried out with little or no personal risk. What I particularly wished to do was to enter his rooms with him at night without anybody being aware of it, and to leave them unnoticed. The Sunday morning I called on him he was, I fancy, a little surprised to see me, but evidently quite pleased. “I am very fond of young people, and I like to have them about me. Mrs. Goodsall and I agree on that. I cannot understand old people who are content to vegetate with their faded contemporaries.” “It isn’t everybody who gets on with young people.” “It is merely a question of mood. You must feel young, and you will get on with them well enough.” “To feel young. Therein lies the difficulty for most people.” “Yes, most people eat and drink and sedenterate themselves—if I may coin a verb—into premature old age.” Whilst he talked I was wondering how long it would take to suffocate a human being, and what density of smoke was necessary, and whether he was a heavy sleeper, a fact he was good enough to enlighten me on. “Youth is merely a question of spirits, and spirits are largely if not entirely a question of sleep. No, I have never missed a night’s sleep in my life that I can remember, not even”—he lowered his voice—“when my mother died.” “You are lucky. I wish I could say as much.” “Directly my head touches the pillow I am asleep, and I don’t wake till I am called.” This was indeed good news, that is, if it could be relied upon. It is amazing how people will lie about their own habits. They are a matter of personal delusion to a great extent, and people talking about themselves will, in good faith, deny idiosyncrasies of which their intimates are fully aware. For aught I could be sure of, Ughtred Gascoyne was a martyr to insomnia, although he certainly did not suggest it. His bedroom was a light, airy room with very little furniture, and a severe, narrow bed such as is affected by the average English gentleman, and is to me an abomination.