“Whose house exactly is this?” he demanded.

“This is St. David’s Hall—­the home of Mr. Miles Fentolin,” the doctor told him.  “The young gentleman with whom you were travelling is his nephew.”

“Can I send a telegram?” Mr. Dunster asked, a little abruptly.

“Without a doubt,” the doctor replied.  “Mr. Fentolin desired me to ask you if there was any one whom you would like to apprise of your safety.”

Again the man upon the bed lay quite still, with knitted brows.  There was surely something familiar about that name.  Was it his fevered fancy or was there also something a little sinister?

The nurse, who had glided from the room, came back presently with some telegraph forms.  Mr. Dunster held out his hand for them and then hesitated.

“Can you tell me any date, Doctor, upon which I can rely upon leaving here?”

“You will probably be well enough to travel on the third day from now,” the doctor assured him.

“The third day,” Mr. Dunster muttered.  “Very well.”

He wrote out three telegrams and passed them over.

“One,” he said, “is to New York, one to The Hague, and one to London.  There was plenty of money in my pocket.  Perhaps you will find it and pay for these.”

“Is there anything more,” the doctor asked, “that can be done for your comfort?”

“Nothing at present,” Mr. Dunster replied.  “My head aches now, but I think that I shall want to leave before three days are up.  Are you the doctor in the neighbourhood?”

Sarson shook his head.

“I am physician to Mr. Fentolin’s household,” he answered quietly.  “I live here.  Mr. Fentolin is himself somewhat of an invalid and requires constant medical attention.”

Mr. Dunster contemplated the speaker steadfastly.

“You will forgive me,” he said.  “I am an American and I am used to plain speech.  I am quite unused to being attended by strange doctors.  I understand that you are not in general practice now.  Might I ask if you are fully qualified?”

“I am an M.D. of London,” the doctor replied.  “You can make yourself quite easy as to my qualifications.  It would not suit Mr. Fentolin’s purpose to entrust himself to the care of any one without a reputation.”

He left the room, and Mr. Dunster closed his eyes.  His slumbers, however, were not altogether peaceful ones.  All the time there seemed to be a hammering inside his head, and from somewhere back in his obscured memory the name of Fentolin seemed to be continually asserting itself.  From somewhere or other, the amazing sense which sometimes gives warning of danger to men of adventure, seemed to have opened its feelers.  He rested because he was exhausted, but even in his sleep he was ill at ease.

The doctor, with the telegrams in his hand, made his way down a splendid staircase, past the long picture gallery where masterpieces of Van Dyck and Rubens frowned and leered down upon him; descended the final stretch of broad oak stairs, crossed the hail, and entered his master’s rooms.  Mr. Fentolin was sitting before the open window, an easel in front of him, a palette in his left hand, painting with deft, swift touches.