“Stop, Bobby!”

“Hartley!  I’m afraid to go to sleep.  It’s dreadful not to know whether you are active in your sleep, whether you are evil and ingenious to the point of the miraculous in your sleep.  I’m so tired, Hartley.”

“Why should you have gone to that room this afternoon?” Graham asked.  “You must get this idea out of your head.  You must have sleep, and, perhaps, when you’re thoroughly rested, you will remember.”

“I’m not so sure,” Bobby said, “that I want to remember.”

He pointed to the footprint.

“There’s no question.  I was here last night.”

“Unless,” Graham said, “your handkerchief and your shoes were stolen.”

“Nonsense!” Bobby cried.  “The only motive would be to commit a murder in order to kill me by sending me to the chair.  And who would know his way around that dark house like me?  Who would have found out so easily that my grandfather had changed his room?”

“It’s logical,” Graham admitted slowly, “but we can’t give in.  By the way, has Paredes ever borrowed any large sums?”

Bobby hesitated.  After all, Paredes and he had been good friends.

“A little here and there,” he answered reluctantly.

“Has he ever paid you back?”

“I don’t recall,” Bobby answered, flushing.  “You know I’ve never been exactly calculating about money.  Whenever he wanted it I was always glad to help Carlos out.  Why do you ask?”

“If any one,” Graham answered, “looked on you as a certain source of money, there would be a motive in conserving that source, in increasing it.  Probably lots of people knew Mr. Blackburn was out of patience with you; would make a new will to-day.”

“Do you think,” Bobby asked, “that Carlos is clever enough to have got through those doors?  And what about this afternoon—­that ghastly disturbing of the body?”

He smiled wanly.

“It looks like me or the ghosts of my ancestors.”

“If Paredes,” Graham insisted, “tries to borrow any money from you now, tell me about it.  Another thing, Bobby.  We can’t afford to keep your experiences of last night a secret any longer.”

He stepped to the door and asked Doctor Groom to come out.

“He won’t be likely to pass your confidences on to Howells,” he said.  “Those men are natural antagonists.”

After a moment the doctor appeared, a slouch hat drawn low over his shaggy forehead.

“What you want?” he grumbled.  “This court’s a first-class place to catch cold.  Dampest hole in the neighbourhood.  Often wondered why.”

“I want to ask you,” Graham began, “something about the effects of such drugs as could be given in wine.  Tell him, will you, Bobby, what happened last night?”

Bobby vanquished the discomfort with which the gruff, opinionated physician had always filled him.  He recited the story of last night’s dinner, of his experience in the cafe, of his few blurred impressions of the swaying vehicle and the woods.