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A clear, frosty morning found Mr. Bellamy walking slowly across the meadows toward the lodge. He was a man who had the extraordinary knack of adjusting his requirements of sleep to circumstances. He could sleep twelve hours at a stretch; he could rise as fresh with two. He was making the journey to the lodge because it was one of his rules never to see strangers at the castle. People with whom he had an appointment got interviewed in a big room set apart for the purpose at the lodge gates.

The sour-faced keeper touched his hat as the Chicago man went into the lodge to find the local policeman waiting patiently.

"Good morning, sir. They tell me there's been some trouble up at the castle."

Bellamy bared his teeth.

"Tell me who told you that, and he'll tell nothing else!" he said unpleasantly.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and threw the note it held upon the table.

"There's a little present for you, officer," he said, "and you can forget about any trouble at the castle. What happened was, I had a bad dream and shot at a shadow. Thought it was a burglar."