“Stop stroking her wrists, Swain,” he said; “that does no good,” and when Swain, without answering or seeming to hear, kept on stroking them, Godfrey drew the hands away, took Swain by the arm, and half-lifted him to his feet.  “Listen to me,” he said, more sternly, and shook him a little, for Swain’s eyes were dull and vacant.  “I want you to sit quietly in a chair for a while, till you get your senses back.  Miss Vaughan is seriously ill and must not be disturbed in any way.  I’m going to get a doctor and a nurse at once; they’ll do what needs to be done.  Until then, she must be left alone.  Understand?”

Swain nodded vaguely, and permitted Godfrey to lead him to a chair near the outer door, where he sat down.  As his hand fell across the arm of the chair, I could see that a little blood was still oozing from the wound on the wrist.  Godfrey saw it, too, and picked up the hand and looked at it.  Then he laid it gently down again and glanced at his watch.  I followed his example, and saw that it was half-past one.

“Have you nerve enough to stay here half an hour by yourself, Lester?” he asked.

“By myself?” I echoed, and glanced at the dead man and at the quivering girl.

“I’ve got to run over to my place to get a few things and do some telephoning,” he explained.  “We must get a doctor up here at once; and then there’s the police—­I’ll try to get Simmonds.  Will you stay?”

“Yes,” I said, “of course.  But please get back as soon as you can.”

“I will,” he promised, and, after a last look around the room, stepped out upon the walk.

I went to the door and looked after him until the sound of his footsteps died away.  Then, feeling very lonely, I turned back into the room.  Those regular tremors were still shaking the girl’s body in a way that seemed to me most alarming, but there was nothing I could do for her, and I finally pulled a chair to Swain’s side.  He, at least, offered a sort of companionship.  He was sitting with his head hanging forward in a way that reminded me most unpleasantly of the huddled figure by the table, and did not seem to be aware of my presence.  I tried to draw him into talk, but a slight nod from time to time was all I could get from him, and I finally gave it up.  Mechanically, my hand sought my coat pocket and got out my pipe—­yes, that was what I needed; and, sitting down in the open doorway, I filled it and lighted up.

My nerves grew calmer, presently, and I was able to think connectedly of the events of the night, but there were two things which, looked at from any angle, I could not understand.  One was Swain’s dazed and incoherent manner; the other was the absence of servants.

As to Swain, I believed him to be a well-poised fellow, not easily upset, and certainly not subject to attacks of nerves.  What had happened to him, then, to reduce him to the pitiable condition in which he had come back to us over the wall, and in which he was still plunged?  The discovery of the murder and of Miss Vaughan’s senseless body might have accounted for it, but his incoherence had antedated that—­unless, indeed, he knew of the murder before he left the grounds.  That thought gave me a sudden shock, and I put it away from me, not daring to pursue it farther.