It was precisely twenty minutes past ten, Mr. Burress told me later,
when he detected, by stealing on tiptoe to my chair, and bending above
me, that I was sound asleep, and the mantel clock was on the stroke of
eleven when I awoke.
In one corner of the room sat a stern statue of Silence, in the shape of
N.B. Burress, watching my repose, and from the adjoining office came the
murmur of voices that proved that the long interview between Dr.
Pemberton and his patient was still in progress.
At this moment, one of the walnut-leaves of the small folding-door,
that formed a communication between the study and office of the good
physician, swung itself gently on its noiseless hinges, into the
position distinguished in description as "slightly ajar," and thus
remained fixed, after a fashion that spiritual mediums might have been
able to account for, on supernatural principles.
The low murmur of voices then readily resolved itself into shaped words
and sentences, and, but for my deep languor, and the delightful sense of
security that possessed me, I should have risen and closed the obliging
door, to shut out unintentional communications.
As it was, I lingered and listened, as one might do to the dash of
waves, or the rustling of branches, until suddenly the tones and meaning
of the principal interlocutor caused me to rise to my loftiest sitting
posture, and clasp the arms of the chair I occupied, while the strained
ear of attention drank in every syllable of the remainder of the
narrative, evidently drawing near its close.
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