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Foster Townsend was, ordinarily, a sound sleeper. Possessed of a good digestion, he seldom lay awake and seldom dreamed. In the small hours of the morning following his return from the "Pinafore" performance his sleep was disturbed. Just what had disturbed it he was not sure, but he lay with half-opened eyes awaiting the repetition of the sound, if sound there had actually been. He did not have to wait long. "Clang! Clang! Clang! " There was no doubt of the reality now. Some one was turning the handle of the spring bell on the front door of the mansion.
He scratched a match and looked at his watch on the table by the bed. The time was after two o'clock. Who in the world would ring that bell at that hour? And why?