There was more light than ever now. The moon shone slantwise through the great window on the landing and threw a brightly lighted patch upon the floor. As the legs of these pajamas crossed this patch he saw them very plainly. They were gray, or lavender, or perhaps a washed-out blue, and there was a triangular tear, such as might happen from getting caught on a nail, in one of them. The rest of the man he couldn’t see so well, and in a moment he was nothing but a shadowed silhouette. Punch almost spoke to him automatically, but checked himself with the reflection that by doing so he’d give some slightly embarrassed guest on his way to the bathroom a horrible start. The next moment he sat up straighter and held his breath. The man didn’t turn into the bathroom. He went straight on up-stairs. That was strange. Why should a guest who slept on this floor go up-stairs in the middle of the night? Or if his room were up there, why had he come down? The boy was rather frightened now, and the realization that he was made it a point of honor with him to investigate the mystery if he could. So softly and swiftly he stole up-stairs too, alert for the sound of a closing door or glimpse of a streak of light under one of them. There wasn’t a sound, and the blackness up here in the billiard room was all but complete. Was somebody lurking there, waiting? Some one who had heard his following footsteps? He stood still, overcoming a panicky impulse of flight. He at last mustered his courage--really considerable, it seems to me--to the point of moving over to the switch and turning on the light in the tin-shaded chandelier over the table. The room was empty. The mystery remained unsolved. Well, he had done all he could anyhow, and he turned off the light again and stole down-stairs. He now went into Judy’s room and glanced around. No, she hadn’t come back yet. She must have gone on that bicycle ride after all. It must be horribly late. He carried her watch from the night-table to the window. After three. He stole back to his uneasy bed on the davenport. He wasn’t yet quite at the end of his night’s adventures. He sprang up again almost before he’d had time to lie down. His grandmother’s door was opening. Somebody with an electric torch was coming out. “Who’s that?” he asked sharply. The figure gave a violent start. It was Miss Digby in her old plum-colored bathrobe. “Punch!” she cried, “what are you doing here?” “Trying to get a night’s sleep,” he said. “What’s happened? Is anything wrong with grandmother?” “No,” Miss Digby said. “I was waked up a few minutes ago by hearing this door shut. I’ve been frightened pretty near out of my wits. I wish you wouldn’t go poking around the house in the middle of the night.”