The fire he had allowed to die out while he sat smoking: the room was,
therefore, now in perfect darkness.
He paused by the door to look about him. All was alike still and
lonely. The village street could have been no more silent and empty if
the two rows of houses had been so many vaults in a cemetery.
Black Milsom walked rapidly up the village street, and entered the
gardens of the castle by a little iron gate, of which Matthew Brook,
the reprobate and offender, had a key. This key Black Milsom had often
heard of, and knew that it was always carried by Brook in a small
breast-pocket of his overcoat.
From the garden he made his way quickly, silently, to the quadrangle on
which Stephen Plumpton's bed-chamber opened.
Here all was dark and silent.
Milsom went straight to the little half-glass door which served both as
door and window for the small sleeping-chamber of Stephen Plumpton.
He opened this door with a cautious hand, and stepped softly into the
room. Stephen lay with his head half covered with the bed-clothes, and
his loud snoring resounded through the chamber.
"The rum-punch has done the trick for you, my friend," Mr. Milsom said
to himself.
He crossed the room with slow and stealthy footsteps, opened the door
communicating with the rest of the house, and went along the passage
leading to the hall.
With cautious steps he groped his way to the door opening on the
secondary staircase, and ascended the thickly carpeted staircase
within.
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