From his study to the dining-room, and from the
dining-room back to his study, was the only variety of his dreary days
and nights. He had an iron bedstead put up in his study, and there he lay
in the earlier hours of the night, taking such rest as he could from
fitful dozing that was scarcely sleep, or from brief intervals of heavy
slumber made horrible by torturing dreams.
In this room he could hear every sudden movement in the hall, every
footstep on the stairs, every opening and shutting of the outer door.
Here, too, he could keep his watch, holding himself ready to counter the
movements of his enemies, should any opportunity arise for action on his
part, defensive or aggressive.
To this room he stealthily returned one brilliant summer morning as the
clocks were striking six. He had been walking in the Bayswater Road,
amidst all the pleasant stir and bustle of early morning. Waggons coming
in from the country, milkwomen setting forth on their daily rounds,
clamorous young rooks cawing among the topmost branches of the elms,
song-birds chirruping and gurgling their glad morning hymn; and over all
things the glory and the freshness of the summer sunshine.
But to Philip Sheldon it was as if these things were not. For the last
twelve or fifteen years of his life he had taken no heed of the change
of the seasons, except insomuch as the passage of time affected his
bill-book, or the condition of that commercial world which was the
beginning and end of his life.
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