“He’ll be all right pretty soon,” remarked Parks, with ready optimism.  “Though I never saw him quite so bad.”

“We can’t leave him lying here on the floor,” said Godfrey.

“There’s a couch-seat in the music-room,” Parks suggested, and the three of us bore the still unconscious man to it.

Then Godfrey and I sat down and waited, while he gasped his way back to life.

“Though he can’t really tell us much,” Godfrey observed.  “In fact, I doubt if he’ll be willing to tell anything.  But his face, when he looked at the picture, told us all we need to know.”

Thus reminded, I took the photograph out of the pocket into which I had slipped it, and looked at it again.

“Where did you get it?” I asked.

“The police photographer made some copies.  This is one of them.”

“But what made you suspect that the two women were the same?”

“I don’t just know,” answered Godfrey, reflectively.  “They were both French—­and Rogers spoke of the red lips; somehow it seemed probable.  Mr. Grady will find some things he doesn’t know in to-morrow’s Record.  But then he usually does.  This time, I’m going to rub it in.  Hello,” he added, “our friend is coming around.”

I looked at Rogers and saw that his eyes were open.  They were staring at us as though wondering who we were.  Godfrey passed an arm under his head and held the glass of water to his lips.

“Take a swallow of this,” he said, and Rogers obeyed mechanically, still staring at him over the rim of the glass, “How do you feel?”

“Pretty weak,” Rogers answered, almost in a whisper.  “Did I have a fit?”

“Something like that,” said Godfrey, cheerfully; “but don’t worry.  You’ll soon be all right again.”

“What sent me off?” asked Rogers, and stared up at him.  Then his face turned purple, and I thought he was going off again.  But after a moment’s heavy breathing, he lay quiet.  “I remember now,” he said.  “Let me see that picture again.”

I passed it to him.  His hand was trembling so he could hardly take it; but I saw he was struggling desperately to control himself, and he managed to hold the picture up before his eyes and look at it with apparent unconcern.

“Do you know her?” Godfrey asked.

To my infinite amazement, Rogers shook his head.

“Never saw her before,” he muttered.  “When I first looked at her, I thought I knew her; but it ain’t the same woman.”

“Do you mean to say,” Godfrey demanded sternly, “that that is not the woman who called on Mr. Vantine to-night?”

Again Rogers shook his head.

“Oh, no,” he protested; “it’s not the same woman at all.  This one is younger.”

Godfrey made no reply; but he sat down and looked at Rogers, and Rogers lay and gazed at the picture, and gradually his face softened, as though at some tender memory.

“Come, Rogers,” I urged, at last.  “You’d better tell us all you know.  If this is the woman, don’t hesitate to say so.”