s, dealt
with the blind of the other window.

This done, it passed to the door, conferred in muted tones with some
unseen person, and returned bearing in its hands a porcelain early
morning tea service.

Having placed this on the table by the bed, the apparition vanished,
closing the door.

Jones sat up and looked around him.

His clothes had disappeared. He always hung his trousers on the bed post
at the end of his bed and placed his other things on a chair, but
trousers or other things were nowhere visible, they had been spirited
away. It was at this moment that he noticed the gorgeous silk pyjamas he
had got on. He held out his arm and looked at the texture and pattern.

Then, in a flash came comfort and understanding. He was in Rochester's
house. Rochester must have sent him here last night. That apparition was
Rochester's man servant. The vision of Rochester turned from an evil
spirit to an angel, and filled with a warm sensation of friendliness
towards the said Rochester he was in the act of pouring out a cup of
tea, when the words he had heard spoken in the passage outside came back
to him.

"Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap's clothes."

What did that mean?

He finished pouring out the tea and drank it; there was thin bread and
butter on a plate but he disregarded it. Whose money had been taken,
and who had been sent home in another chap's clothes?

Did those words apply to him or to Rochester? Had Rochester been robbed?
Might he, Jones, be held accountable?

A deep uneasiness and a passionate desire for his garments begotten of
these queries, brought him out of bed and on to the floor. He came to
the nearer window and looked out. The window gave upon the Green Park, a
cheerful view beneath the sky of a perfect summer's morning. He turned
from the window, and crossing the room opened the door through which the
apparition had vanished. A thickly carpeted corridor lay outside, a
corridor silent as the hypogeum of the Apis, secretive, gorgeous, with
tasseled silk curtains and hanging lamps. Jones judged these lamps to be
of silver and worth a thousand dollars apiece. He had read the Arabian
Nights when a boy, and like a waft now from the garden of Aladdin came a
vague something stirring his senses and disturbing his practical nature.
He wanted his clothes. This silent gorgeousness had raised the desire
for his garments to a passion. He wanted to get into his boots and face
the world