Nothing more—just that one remark; his hand still pointing inexorably across the table. Then after a moment he turned so that the light fell full on his face, and I realised what was the matter. Bill Sibton was walking in his sleep. Slowly he came towards the door behind which I stood, and passed through it—so close that he almost touched me as I shrank back against the wall. Then he went up the stairs, and as soon as I heard him reach the landing above, I quickly turned out the light in the dining-room and followed him. His bedroom door was closed: there was no sound from inside. There was nothing more for me to do: my burglar had developed into a harmless somnambulist. Moreover, it suddenly struck me that I had become most infernally sleepy myself. So I did not curse Bill mentally as much as I might have done. I turned in, and my nine o’clock next morning was very provisional. So was Bill Sibton’s: we arrived together for breakfast at a quarter to ten. He looked haggard and ill, like a man who has not slept, and his first remark was to curse Dick Armytage. “I had the most infernal dreams last night,” he grumbled. “Entirely through Dick reminding me of this room. I dreamed the whole show that took place in here in that old bird’s time.” He pointed to the portrait of Sir James. “Did you!” I remarked, pouring out some coffee. “Must have been quite interesting.” “I know I wasn’t at all popular with the crowd,” he said. “I don’t set any store by dreams myself—but last night it was really extraordinarily vivid.” He stirred his tea thoughtfully. “I can quite imagine that, Bill. Do you ever walk in your sleep?” “Walk in my sleep? No.” He stared at me surprised. “Why?” “You did last night. I found you down here at four o’clock in your pyjamas. You were standing just where I’m sitting now, pointing with your hand across the table. And as I stood outside the door you suddenly said, ‘You lie, Sir Henry!—you lie!’” “Part of my dream,” he muttered. “Sir Henry Brayton was the name of the man—and he was the leader. They were all furious with me about something. We quarrelled—and after that there seemed to be a closed door. It was opening slowly, and instinctively I knew there was something dreadful behind it. You know the terror of a dream; the primordial terror of the mind that cannot reason against something hideous—unknown——” I glanced at him: his forehead was wet with sweat. “And then the dream passed. The door didn’t open.” “Undoubtedly, my lad,” I remarked lightly, “you had one whisky too many last night.” “Don’t be an ass, Tom,” he said irritably. “I tell you—though you needn’t repeat it—I’m in a putrid funk of this room. Absurd, I know: ridiculous. But I can’t help it. And if there was a train on this branch line on Sunday, I’d leave to-day.” “But, good Lord, Bill,” I began—and then I went on with my breakfast. There was a look on his face which it is not good to see on the face of a man. It was terror: an abject, dreadful terror.