Knowing little, but suspecting much of the resources
of Fire-Tongue, he endeavoured to avoid contact with anything in
the place.
Night attire was provided in the sleeping chamber, but he did not
avail himself of this hospitality. Absolute silence reigned about
him. Yet so immutable are Nature's laws, that presently Paul
Harley sank back upon the mattresses, and fell asleep.
He awoke, acutely uncomfortable and ill-rested. He found a shaft
of light streaming into the room, and casting shadows of the iron
bars upon the opposite wall. The brass lantern still burned above
him, and the silence remained complete as when he had fallen
asleep. He stood up yawning and stretching himself.
At least, it was good to be still alive. He was vaguely conscious
of the fact that he had been dreaming of Phil Abingdon, and
suppressing a sigh, he clenched his teeth grimly and entered the
little bathroom. There proved to be a plentiful supply of hot and
cold water. At this he sniffed suspiciously, but at last:
"I'll risk it," he muttered.
He undressed and revelled in the joy of a hot bath, concluding
with a cold plunge. A razor and excellent toilet requisites were
set upon the dressing table, and whilst his imagination whispered
that the soap might be poisoned and the razor possess a septic
blade, he shaved, and having shaved, lighted his pipe and
redressed himself at leisure.
He had nearly completed his toilet when a slight sound in the
outer room arrested his attention.
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