"What are you howling about?" he asked gruffly, and staring with bent brows at the white-faced man.
"Murder!" chattered Herries, shivering and sitting up in bed, chin on knees, "at least----" he flung the razor towards the man.
Narby, by this time well within the room, deftly caught the article, and examined it closely. "Blood!" said he under his breath; then looked at Herries, still shivering as with ague. "But y' ain't dead, cut yourself maybe, shaving?"
"I have not shaved for two days. I have no razor with me, that is not mine. Who has been murdered?" so Herries babbled, confusedly.
"Why, no one," growled the landlord, bristling. "This is a decent inn, this is. Do you think we take in folks to cut their throats. You've had a nightmare and this razor of yours----"
"It is not mine," passionately interrupted the young man. "I found it on the quilt when I woke at nine this morning."
"Then I mistook the time, having no watch. But the blood----"
"It is queer," admitted Narby, meditatively, "but there's no one dead, so far as I know. Old Gowrie slept in the tap-room, and went off at seven. My wife and Elspeth are alive and busy; Pope, too, ate a good breakfast, and there's no sign of a corpse about me."
"What of the gentleman who came last night?"
"He went away at eight, as he arranged, without his breakfast. My wife saw him pass through the tap-room in that fur-coat of his, and no wonder on such a chilly morning. He never passed the time of day--gentry manners in this country, I 'spose."
"Then there's nothing wrong!" cried Herries, more bewildered than ever.
"Not that I know of. Someone's been having a joke with you, though who'd play a low-down trick like this is more nor I can tell."
Narby looked at Herries, and Herries stared back at Narby, both puzzled, and both bad-tempered. Whosoever had played this poor joke, if joke it was, the landlord at least was innocent of the jest. The young man shook his head to clear it of cobwebs and signed to the other to leave the room, intending to get up and dress. The voice of Mrs. Narby in the passage chained him to the bed.
"Wot's he 'ollerin' abaout?" she asked in her vile dialect.
"Had the nightmare," grumbled her spouse, pushing her back as she tried to peep in.