“Now, Martin, come back to the Golden House, and let’s put that fellow in a safe place.”

“Yes,” said I; “and have a look for the money.”  For really, in the excitement, it seemed as if there was a danger of the most important thing of all being forgotten.

The dawn was now far advanced, and as we left the Piazza, we could see the Golden House at the other end of the avenue.  All looked quiet, and the sentries were gently pacing to and fro.  Drawing nearer, we saw two or three of the President’s servants busied about their ordinary tasks.  One woman was already deleting Johnny Carr’s life-blood with a mop and a pail of water; and a carpenter was at work repairing the front-door.  Standing by it was the doctor’s brougham.

“Come to see Carr, I suppose,” said I.

Leaving our horses to the care of the men who were with us we entered the house.  Just inside we met the doctor himself.  He was a shrewd little fellow, named Anderson, generally popular and, though a personal friend of the President’s, not openly identified with either political party.

“I have a request to make to you, sir,” he said to McGregor, “about Mr. Carr.”

“Well, is he dead?” said the colonel.  “If he is, he’s got only himself to thank for it.”

The doctor wisely declined to discuss this question, and confined himself to stating that Johnny was not dead.  On the contrary, he was going on nicely.

“But,” he went on, “quiet is essential, and I want to take him to my house, out of the racket.  No doubt it is pretty quiet here now, but—­”

The colonel interrupted: 

“Will he give his parole not to escape?”

“My dear sir,” said the doctor, “the man couldn’t move to save his life—­and he’s asleep now.”

“You must wake him up to move him, I suppose,” said the colonel.  “But you may take him.  Let me know when he’s well enough to see me.  Meanwhile I hold you responsible for his good behavior.”

“Certainly,” said the doctor.  “I am content to be responsible for Mr. Carr.”

“All right; take him and get out.  Now for Whittingham!”

“Hadn’t we better get the money first?” said I.

“Damn the money!” he replied.  “But I tell you what—­I must have a bit of food.  I’ve tasted nothing for twelve hours.”

One of the servants hearing him, said: 

“Breakfast can be served in a moment, sir.”  And he ushered us into the large dining room, where we soon had an excellent meal.

When we had got through most of it, I broke the silence by asking: 

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I should like to shoot him,” said the colonel.

“On what charge?”

“Treachery,” he replied.

I smiled.

“That would hardly do, would it?”

“Well, then, embezzlement of public funds.”

We had a little talk about the President’s destiny, and I tried to persuade the colonel to milder measures.  In fact, I was determined to prevent such a murder if I could without ruin to myself.