Found Dead by Fred M. White

It was close on eleven the same evening when Blake crept out of his bedroom and went very very cautiously down the broad oak staircase in his stockinged feet, carrying a pair of stout shoes in his hand. It had pleased him well enough when Mortmain had suggested a rather early retirement, and Blake knew perfectly well that the household staff had gone to bed some time since. There was no particular reason why he should not have told Mortmain that he was bent on a nocturnal expedition, but on the whole he thought it just as well for the time being, to keep his movements to himself. He would have a good deal to say before many hours had elapsed, but, meanwhile, silence was his best policy.

He was dressed in a suit of shabby flannels, as he had changed into these directly he had reached his bedroom. It was more than possible that he would meet with some rough and tumble work and perhaps a cross-country chase, so that he did not want to be overburdened with clothes more than necessary. He donned his shoes and let himself out of the house by a side door, without making the slightest noise. He crept noiselessly past the lodge, vaulting the gates there and, when once he was in the open, there was no more cause to fear anything in the way of an unpleasant interruption.