“No, he isn’t,” I agreed, looking at him, and I took the garments which Godfrey held out to me.  Then I went over to Swain and put the flask into his uninjured hand.  “Take a drink of that,” I said.

He did not understand at first; then he put the flask to his lips and drank eagerly—­so eagerly that I had to draw it away.  He watched me longingly as I screwed on the cap and slipped it into my pocket; and there was more colour in his face and a brighter light in his eyes.

“Now, come along,” I said, “and get that cut fixed up.”

He rose obediently and followed me out into the hall.  Godfrey had preceded us, found the light-switch after a brief search, and turned it on.

“There’s a switch in the bath-room, too, no doubt,” he said.  “Bring him down again, as soon as you get him fixed up.  You’ll find some cotton and gauze in one of the pockets of the coat.”

Swain followed me up the stair and into the bath-room.  He seemed to understand what I intended doing, for he divested himself of coat and shirt and was soon washing arms and face vigorously.  Then he dried himself, and stood patiently while I washed and bandaged the cut on the wrist.  It was not a deep one, and had about stopped bleeding.

“Feel better?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, and without waiting for me to tell him, slipped into the clean shirt which Godfrey had brought, attached the collar and tied the tie, all this quite composedly and without hesitation or clumsiness.  Yet I felt, in some indefinable way, that something was seriously wrong with him.  His eyes were vacant and his face flabby, as though the muscles were relaxed.  It gave me the feeling that his intelligence was relaxed, too!

He picked up his own coat, but I stopped him.

“Don’t put that on,” I said, speaking to him as I would have spoken to a child.  “The sleeve is blood-stained and there’s a long tear down the side.  Take this one,” and I held out the light lounging-coat Godfrey had brought with him.

Swain laid down his own garment without a word and put on the other one.  I rolled the soiled garments into a bundle, took them under my arm, turned out the lights, and led the way downstairs.

A murmur of voices from the library told me that someone had arrived, and when I reached the door, I saw that it was the doctor and the nurse.  The former was just rising from a rapid examination of the quivering figure on the couch.

“We must get her to bed at once,” he said, turning to Godfrey.  “Her bedroom’s upstairs, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Godfrey; “shall I show you the way?”

The doctor nodded and, lifting the girl carefully in his arms, followed Godfrey out into the hall.  The nurse picked up a medicine-case from the floor and followed after.

I had expected Swain to rush forward to the couch, to make a scene, perhaps, and had kept my hand upon his arm; but to my astonishment he did not so much as glance in that direction.  He stood patiently beside me, with his eyes on the floor, and when my restraining hand fell away, he walked slowly to the chair in which he had been sitting, and dropped into it, relaxing limply as with fatigue.