He supped at the ordinary in the company of linen merchants and
travellers, and quite recovered his spirits. He smoked a pipe of tobacco
on a bench under the trees of the square, and giving an order that he
should be called at five went up to his bedroom.

There was a key in the lock of the door, which Wogan turned; he also
tilted a chair and wedged the handle. He opened the window and looked
out. His room was on the first floor and not very high from the ground.
A man might possibly climb through the window. Gaydon would assuredly
close the shutters and the window, so that no one could force an
entrance without noise. Wogan accordingly did what Gaydon would
assuredly have done, and when he blew out his candle found himself in
consequence in utter darkness. No glimmer of light was anywhere visible.
He had his habits like another, and one of them was to sleep without
blinds or curtains drawn. His present deflection from this habit made
him restless; he was tired, he wished above all things to sleep, but
sleep would not come. He turned from one side to the other, he punched
his pillows, he tried to sleep with his head low, and when that failed
with his head high.

He resigned himself in the end to a sleepless night, and lying in his
bed drew some comfort from the sound of voices and the tread of feet in
the passages and the rooms about him. These, at all events, were
companionable, and they assured him of safety. But in a while they
ceased, and he was left in a silence as absolute as the darkness. He
endured this silence for perhaps half an hour, and then all manner of
infinitesimal sounds began to stir about him. The lightest of footsteps
moved about his bed, faint sighs breathed from very close at hand, even
his name was softly whispered. He sat suddenly up in his bed, and at
once all these sounds became explained to him. They came from the street
and the square outside the window. So long as he sat up they were
remote, but the moment he lay down again they peopled the room.