The outer door hangs grinningly upon its hinges. The door going to the inner room has a working latch; George kicks it open; elbows it to behind him; drops the Rose with jarring plump; strikes a match. There is the dusty pile of Old Tom bottles, there the little heap of bracken upon which Mrs. Major doubtless had reclined while with Old Tom she talked. Excellent! The match goes out. He lights another. The Rose is standing forlornly at his feet. While the match lasts he lifts her to the bracken bed; presses her down; backs out; closes the door. His watch, put beneath the moon, tells him it is upon one o'clock. He pulls to the outer door; wedges beneath it a stump of wood that keeps it firmly shut; makes for home. In an hour he is sleeping the dreamless, childlike slumber that comes to those who, setting their hand to the plough, have manfully laboured a full day's work. CHAPTER V. Horror At Herons' Holt. I. Sleep does not necessarily shun the bed of the wicked. She is a wanton mistress, and will cuddle where her fancy chances, careless whether vice or virtue is her bedfellow; coy when most eagerly supplicated, seductive when least desired. George, steeped in crime, snuggled warmly to her until aroused by a rude shaking. Night-capped and dressing-gowned, white-faced and trembling, awful in grief Mr. Marrapit stood near him. “Get up! The Rose of Sharon is lost.” “Impossible!” “I tell you it is so. Up!” George pushed a shaking leg out of bed. He was had unawares. As a sleeper pitched sleeping into the sea, so from unconsciousness he was hurled plump into the whirlpool of events. And as the sleeper thus immersed would gulp and sink and kick, so now he blinked, shivered, and gasped. He repeated: “Impossible!” “I tell you it is so. I have eyes; I have been to her room.” Mr. Marrapit's voice rose in a wailing cry. “I have been to her room. Gone! Gone!” George put out the other leg--crime-steeped legs that quivered. He had looked for a space between awaking and meeting his uncle in which to prepare his plans, rehearse his words. This abrupt rousing stampeded his senses. He quavered “Wher--where can she be?” Mr. Marrapit flung up his arms. “Oh, my God! If I knew that would I be here? Up! Up! Join the searchers in the garden.” George pushed a criminal leg into his trousers. Conscience made thumbs of his fingers, trembled his joints. He hopped frantically, thrusting with the other foot. “Dance!” Mr. Marrapit moaned bitterly. “Dance! That is right! Why do you not sing also? This is nothing to you! Dance on! Dance on!” George cannoned the wash-stand. “It _is_ something to me. I can hardly believe it!” “Is sorrow expressed in a gavotte? Grief in a hornpipe?” “I'm not dancing. My damned bags are stuck!” Mr. Marrapit wrung his hands. “Discard them! Discard them! Must decency imperil the Rose?” With a tremendous kick George thrust in past the obstruction. “They're on now--my slippers--coat--what shall I do?”