Suddenly his foot struck against the root of a tree, and he stumbled forward and awoke. He scrambled out of the bushes into which he had fallen, while a cloud of pale moths fluttered about him. For a minute or two the shock drove the blood thundering to his ears, and everything wheeled round and round in a dizzy circle. Then terror gripped him. Where was he? Who had brought him here? He gave a cry, and something tugged at the jacket of his pyjamas, while a warm heavy body leaned against him, and a warm tongue passed over his hands. It was Pouncer; and in his relief Grif dropped down on his knees and hugged him, while the bulldog licked his face and neck. He knew now that he must have walked in his sleep. He was living still, and this was the solid old earth beneath him, but for one brief terrible moment he had imagined he was dead. The dew penetrated through his light flannel clothing, and he felt it cold and pleasant on his burning skin. He heard the cry of a bird he had frightened in falling; he saw the pale moths settling down once more in the shadow of the bushes. He hurried back through the trees, till, beyond the croquet-lawn, he saw the house standing square and white and strange――that sleeping house out of which he had wandered. The freshness of dawn was in the air. When he came up to the porch he found the door shut, and knew that his adventure was not yet over. He walked round the house, for he thought he might perhaps have come out through a window, but all the windows on the ground-floor were shuttered and latched. He would have to ring and awaken somebody. Then another plan occurred to him, and he gathered a handful of gravel from the drive, and stepping back from the porch threw in a small stone at the boys’ bedroom window. He threw a second and a third, listening between each, till at last he heard a movement. Directly afterwards a head and shoulders leaned over the sill, and Grif whispered eagerly, “Don’t make a noise. It’s me――Grif――I’ve been shut out. Come down and let me in.” The head was withdrawn, and Grif entered the porch. In a moment or two the door was softly opened. Grif slipped inside, followed by Pouncer, while Palmer, a lighted candle in his hand, asked, “How on earth did you get out there? What have you been doing? I thought at first it was one of those chaps from the circus come back.” “I walked in my sleep. Keep very quiet going upstairs; I don’t want anybody to know.” They crept up like mice, Palmer following Grif to his room. There he put down the lighted candle on the dressing-table, and he himself sat down on the side of the bed to consider this curious exploit. Grif had been rummaging in a drawer in search of a clean sleeping-suit, and he now began to change. “I’m wet through,” he said. “It’s the dew. I was in the long grass and it was soaking wet.” “But how did you get there?” “I walked in my sleep. I’ve done it often before, though not lately, not for more than a year. Are the others awake?”