The old butler came in.  He looked in blank amazement at the empty chair.  “Where’s the master?” he asked.

I could only answer that he had left the table suddenly, without a word of explanation.  “He may perhaps be ill,” I added.  “As his old servant, you can do no harm if you go and look for him.  Say that I am waiting here, if he wants me.”

The minutes passed slowly and more slowly.  I was left alone for so long a time that I began to feel seriously uneasy.  My hand was on the bell again, when there was a knock at the door.  I had expected to see the butler.  It was the groom who entered the room.

“Garthwaite can’t come down to you, sir,” said the man.  “He asks, if you will please go up to the master on the Belvidere.”

The house—­extending round three sides of a square—­was only two stories high.  The flat roof, accessible through a species of hatchway, and still surrounded by its sturdy stone parapet, was called “The Belvidere,” in reference as usual to the fine view which it commanded.  Fearing I knew not what, I mounted the ladder which led to the roof.  Romayne received me with a harsh outburst of laughter—­that saddest false laughter which is true trouble in disguise.

“Here’s something to amuse you!” he cried.  “I believe old Garthwaite thinks I am drunk—­he won’t leave me up here by myself.”

Letting this strange assertion remain unanswered, the butler withdrew.  As he passed me on his way to the ladder, he whispered:  “Be careful of the master!  I tell you, sir, he has a bee in his bonnet this night.”

Although not of the north country myself, I knew the meaning of the phrase.  Garthwaite suspected that the master was nothing less than mad!

Romayne took my arm when we were alone—­we walked slowly from end to end of the Belvidere.  The moon was, by this time, low in the heavens; but her mild mysterious light still streamed over the roof of the house and the high heathy ground round it.  I looked attentively at Romayne.  He was deadly pale; his hand shook as it rested on my arm—­and that was all.  Neither in look nor manner did he betray the faintest sign of mental derangement.  He had perhaps needlessly alarmed the faithful old servant by something that he had said or done.  I determined to clear up that doubt immediately.

“You left the table very suddenly,” I said.  “Did you feel ill?”

“Not ill,” he replied.  “I was frightened.  Look at me—­I’m frightened still.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, he repeated the strange question which he had put to me downstairs.

“Do you call it a quiet night?”

Considering the time of year, and the exposed situation of the house, the night was almost preternaturally quiet.  Throughout the vast open country all round us, not even a breath of air could be heard.  The night-birds were away, or were silent at the time.  But one sound was audible, when we stood still and listened—­the cool quiet bubble of a little stream, lost to view in the valley-ground to the south.