I glanced at my watch.  It was half-past four.  Another dawn was brightening along the east.

Hinman ran upstairs, took a look at his patient, and came down to tell us that she was sleeping calmly.

“She’ll be all right in the morning,” he assured us; “and while I don’t want to butt in, I’d certainly like to hear her story.  Adventures like this don’t happen very often to a country doctor!  May I come?”

“Most surely!” I assented warmly.  “I think we were very fortunate to have had you in this case, doctor.”

“So do I!” echoed Godfrey, while Hinman flushed with pleasure.  “And don’t forget, Lester, that it was I who picked him out, with nothing better than the telephone-book to guide me!  That was my infallible instinct!”

“Suppose we say ten o’clock, then?” I suggested, smiling at Godfrey’s exuberance—­but then, I was feeling rather exuberant myself!

“I’ll be here!” said Hinman.  “And thank you,” and a moment later we heard his car chugging away down the drive.

We listened to it for a moment, then Godfrey yawned again.

“Come along, Lester,” he said, “or I’ll go to sleep on my feet.  Can I give you a bed, Simmonds?”

“No, thanks,” said Simmonds.  “I’m not ready for bed.  I’m going to comb this whole neighbourhood, as soon as it’s light.  Silva can’t escape—­unless he just fades away into the air.”

“You’ve found no trace of him?”

“I’ve had no reports yet,” and Simmonds walked beside us down the drive to the gate; “but my men ought to be coming in pretty soon.  There’s a thick grove just across the road, where he may be hiding....”

He stopped, for a man was hastening toward us, carrying under one arm a small white bundle.

Simmonds quickened his pace.

“What’s that you’ve got?” he asked.

The man saluted.

“I found it just now, sir, in the bushes near the gate.  Looks like a dress.”

Simmonds unrolled it slowly.  It was the robe of the White Priest of Siva.

Godfrey looked at it and then at Simmonds, whose face was a study.  Then he took me by the arm and led me away.

“I’m afraid Simmonds has his work cut out for him,” he said, when we were out of earshot.  “I thought so from the first.  A fellow as clever as Silva would be certain to keep his line of retreat open.  He’s far away by this time.”

He walked on thoughtfully, a little smile on his lips.

“I’m not altogether sorry,” he continued.  “It adds an interest to life to know that he’s running around the world, and that we may encounter him again some day.  He’s a remarkable fellow, Lester; one of the most remarkable I ever met.  He comes close to being a genius.  I’d give something to hear the story of his life.”

That wish was destined to be gratified, for, three years later, we heard that story, or a part of it, from Silva’s lips, as he lay calmly smoking a cigarette, looking in the face of death,—­and without flinching.  Perhaps, some day, I shall tell that story.