The man took a long breath and returned to his task.  His shoulders and arms were upon the door.  He began to strain.  He grew red in the face; the veins across his forehead stood out, blue, like tightly-drawn string.  His complexion became purple.  Through his open mouth his breath came in short pants.  With every muscle of his body and neck he strained and strained.  The woodwork gave a little, but it never even cracked.  With a sob he suddenly almost collapsed.  Mr. Fentolin looked at him, frowning.

“Very good—­very good, Meekins,” he said, “but not quite good enough.  You are a trifle out of practice, perhaps.  Take your breath, take time.  Remember that you have another chance.  I am not angry with you, Meekins.  I know there are many enterprises upon which one does not succeed the first time.  Get your breath; there is no hurry.  Next time you try, see that you succeed.  It is very important, Meekins, for you as well as for us, that you succeed.”

The man turned doggedly back to his task.  The eyes of the three men watched him—­Mr. Dunster on the bed; Doctor Sarson, pale and gloomy, with something of fear in his dark eyes; and Mr. Fentolin himself, whose expression seemed to be one of purely benevolent and encouraging interest.  Once more the face of the man became almost unrecognisable.  There was a great crack, the trap-door had shifted.  Meekins, with a little cry, reeled and sank backwards.  Mr. Fentolin clapped his hands lightly.

“Really, Meekins,” he declared, “I do not know when I have enjoyed any performance so much.  I feel as if I were back in the days of the Roman gladiators.  I can see that you mean to succeed.  You will succeed.  You do not mean to end your days amid objectionable surroundings.”

With the air of a man temporarily mad, Meekins went back to his task.  He was sobbing to himself now.  His clothes had burst away from him.  Suddenly there was a crash, the hinges of the trap-door had parted.  With the blood streaming from a wound in his forehead, Meekins staggered back to his feet.  Mr. Fentolin nodded.

“Excellent!” he pronounced.  “Really excellent.  With a little assistance from our friend Meekins, you, I am sure, Sarson, will now be able to climb up and let down the steps.”

Doctor Sarson stood by Mr. Fentolin’s chair, and together they looked up through the fragments of the trap-door.  Meekins was still breathing heavily.  Suddenly they heard the sound of a sharp report, as of a door above being slammed.

“Some one was in the boat-house when I broke the trap-door,” Meekins muttered.  “I heard them moving about.”

Mr. Fentolin frowned.

“Then let us hurry,” he said.  “Sarson, what about your patient?”

Mr. Dunster was lying upon his side, watching them.  The doctor went over to the bedside and felt his pulse and head.

“He will do for twelve hours,” he pronounced.  “If you think that other little operation—­”