Through the half-open door—­the bedroom led out of the sitting-room and had no other door—­came the sound of deep, long-drawn breathing, the regular, steady breathing of a tired man, so tired that, even to listen to it made Marriott almost want to go to sleep himself.

“He needed it,” reflected the student, “and perhaps it came only just in time!”

Perhaps so; for outside the bitter wind from across the Forth howled cruelly and drove the rain in cold streams against the window-panes, and down the deserted streets.  Long before Marriott settled down again properly to his reading, he heard distantly, as it were, through the sentences of the book, the heavy, deep breathing of the sleeper in the next room.

A couple of hours later, when he yawned and changed his books, he still heard the breathing, and went cautiously up to the door to look round.

At first the darkness of the room must have deceived him, or else his eyes were confused and dazzled by the recent glare of the reading lamp.  For a minute or two he could make out nothing at all but dark lumps of furniture, the mass of the chest of drawers by the wall, and the white patch where his bath stood in the centre of the floor.

Then the bed came slowly into view.  And on it he saw the outline of the sleeping body gradually take shape before his eyes, growing up strangely into the darkness, till it stood out in marked relief—­the long black form against the white counterpane.

He could hardly help smiling.  Field had not moved an inch.  He watched him a moment or two and then returned to his books.  The night was full of the singing voices of the wind and rain.  There was no sound of traffic; no hansoms clattered over the cobbles, and it was still too early for the milk carts.  He worked on steadily and conscientiously, only stopping now and again to change a book, or to sip some of the poisonous stuff that kept him awake and made his brain so active, and on these occasions Field’s breathing was always distinctly audible in the room.  Outside, the storm continued to howl, but inside the house all was stillness.  The shade of the reading lamp threw all the light upon the littered table, leaving the other end of the room in comparative darkness.  The bedroom door was exactly opposite him where he sat.  There was nothing to disturb the worker, nothing but an occasional rush of wind against the windows, and a slight pain in his arm.

This pain, however, which he was unable to account for, grew once or twice very acute.  It bothered him; and he tried to remember how, and when, he could have bruised himself so severely, but without success.

At length the page before him turned from yellow to grey, and there were sounds of wheels in the street below.  It was four o’clock.  Marriott leaned back and yawned prodigiously.  Then he drew back the curtains.  The storm had subsided and the Castle Rock was shrouded in mist.  With another yawn he turned away from the dreary outlook and prepared to sleep the remaining four hours till breakfast on the sofa.  Field was still breathing heavily in the next room, and he first tip-toed across the floor to take another look at him.