“I don’t care about that,” he answered, fervently.  “I don’t care about anything except that I should like to understand a little more clearly what it all means.  I hate mysteries.  I don’t see why you can’t tell me.  I am your friend.  If it is necessary for me to say nothing, I shall say nothing, but I hate the thoughts that come to me sometimes.  Tell me, why should that man have been haunting your house the other evening?  What did he want?  And to-night—­what made him break into your room?”

She sighed.

“If it were only so simple as all that,” she answered, “oh!  I would tell you so willingly.  But it is not.  There is so much which I do not understand myself.”

He leaned a little closer towards her.  The silence of the room and the house was unbroken.

“The man will die!” he said.  “Who do you believe could have struck him that blow in your room?”

“I do not know,” she answered; “indeed I do not.”

“You heard what Groves said,” Arnold continued.  “There is no one in the house except the servants.”

“That man was here,” she answered.  “Why not others?  Listen.”

There was the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hall.  She held up her finger cautiously.

“Be very careful before Mr. Weatherley,” she begged.  “It is an ordinary burglary, this—­no more.”

The door was opened.  Mr. Weatherley, in hasty and most unbecoming deshabille, bustled in.  His scanty gray hair was sticking out in patches all over his head.  He seemed, as yet, scarcely awake.  With one hand he clutched at the dressing-gown, the girdle of which was trailing behind him.

“What is the meaning of this, Fenella?” he demanded.  “Why am I fetched from my room in this manner?  You, Chetwode?  What are you doing here?”

“I have brought Mrs. Weatherley home, sir,” Arnold answered.  “We noticed a light in her room and we made a discovery there.  It looks as though there has been an attempted burglary within the last hour or so.”

“Which room?” Mr. Weatherley asked.  “Which room?  Is anything missing?”

“Nothing, fortunately,” Arnold replied.  “The man, by some means or other, seems to have been hurt.”

“Where is he?” Mr. Weatherley demanded.

“In my boudoir,” Fenella replied.  “We will all go.  I have telephoned for a doctor.”

“A doctor?  What for?” Mr. Weatherley inquired.  “Who needs a doctor?”

“The burglar, if he is a burglar,” she explained, gently.  “Don’t you understand that all we found was a man, lying in the centre of the room?  He has had a fall of some sort.”

“God bless my soul!” Mr. Weatherley said.  “Well, come along, let’s have a look at him.”

They trooped down the passage.  Groves, waiting outside for them, opened the door.  Mr. Weatherley, who was first, looked all around the apartment.

“Where is this man?” he demanded.  “Where is he?”