The small, alert man came down the side-passage leading into the hall from the back part of the house. ‘This is decidedly a useful sort of servant,’ thought Richard, as he looked intently at Mike’s wrinkled, humorous face. The Irishman seemed to be about thirty-five years of age. ‘Micky,’ said Teresa, ‘show Mr. Redgrave to his room--the room over here. Bridget has prepared it; but see that all is in order.’ ‘That I will, miss,’ said Micky, but only after a marked pause. Richard shook hands with his hostess and ascended the stairs in Micky’s wake, and was presently alone in a not very large bedroom, plainly but sufficiently furnished, and with some rather good prints of famous pictures on the walls. ‘Without doubt,’ he said, as he got into bed, ‘I have had a good day and deserve a good night. I must take measures to stop here as long as I can.’ He had scarcely closed his eyes when there was a tap at the door, the discreetest possible tap. ‘Well?’ he inquired. ‘It’s myself, sorr,’ said the voice of Micky familiarly. ‘Come in, then, Mike,’ Richard said with equal familiarity. He already liked Micky; he felt as though he had known Micky for many years. Richard had drawn both the blind and the curtains, and the room was in darkness; he could only discern the outline of a figure. ‘The mistress told me to remind your honour that breakfast was at seven sharp.’ ‘I was aware of it,’ Richard said dryly; ‘but I thank your mistress for the reminder.’ ‘An’ begging pardon, sorr, but d’ye know where it is you’re sleeping?’ ‘At present,’ said Richard, ‘I’m not sleeping anywhere.’ ‘Ah, sorr! Don’t joke. Mr. Featherstone slept in this room, sorr. Did ye know Mr. Featherstone?’ ‘What!’ cried Richard, starting up. ‘Do you mean the man that committed suicide?’ ‘The same, sorr. But speak low, your honour. It’s myself that should not have mentioned it.’ ‘Why not?’ Richard asked, subduing his voice. ‘The master might not like it.’ ‘Then why do you tell me?’ ‘They say it’s unlucky to sleep in a room where a suicide slept the last night of his life.’ ‘Then Mr. Featherstone killed himself the day he left here?’ ‘Sure he did so. And I thought I’d warn you.’ ‘Oh, well,’ said Richard, ‘it’s no matter. I dare say it won’t affect my repose. Goodnight. Thanks.’ ‘I’d like ye to sleep in another room--I’d like ye to,’ urged Mike in a persuasive whisper. ‘No, thanks,’ said Richard firmly; ‘I’m settled now, and will take the risk.’