Mr. Fentolin broke off in the middle of his sentence.  The august calm of the great house had been suddenly broken.  From up-stairs came the tumult of raised voices, the slamming of a door, the falling of something heavy upon the floor.  Mr. Fentolin listened with a grim change in his expression.  His smile had departed, his lower lip was thrust out, his eyebrows met.  He raised the little whistle which hung from his chain.  At that moment, however, the door was opened.  Doctor Sarson appeared.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Fentolin,” he said, “but our patient is becoming a little difficult.  The concussion has left him, as I feared it might, in a state of nervous excitability.  He insists upon an interview with you.”

Mr. Fentolin backed his little chair from the table.  The doctor came over and laid his hand upon the handle.

“You will, I am sure, excuse me for a few moments, Mr. Hamel,” his host begged.  “My niece and nephew will do their best to entertain you.  Now, Sarson, I am ready.”

Mr. Fentolin glided across the dim, empty spaces of the splendid apartment, followed by the doctor; a ghostly little procession it seemed.  The door was closed behind them.  For a few moments a curious silence ensued.  Gerald remained tense and apparently suffering from some sort of suppressed emotion.  Esther for the first time moved in her place.  She leaned towards Hamel.  Her lips were slowly parted, her eyes sought the door as though in terror.  Her voice, although save for themselves there was no one else in the whole of that great apartment, had sunk to the lowest of whispers.

“Are you a brave man, Mr. Hamel?” she asked.

He was staggered but he answered her promptly.

“I believe so.”

“Don’t give up the Tower—­just yet.  That is what—­he has brought you here for.  He wants you to give it up and go back.  Don’t!”

The earnestness of her words was unmistakable.  Hamel felt the thrill of coming events.

“Why not?”

“Don’t ask me,” she begged.  “Only if you are brave, if you have feeling for others, keep the Tower, if it be for only a week.  Hush!”

The door had been noiselessly opened.  The doctor appeared and advanced to the table with a grave little bow.

“Mr. Fentolin,” he said, “has been kind enough to suggest that I take a glass of wine with you.  My presence is not needed up-stairs.  Mr. Hamel,” he added, “I am glad, sir, to make your acquaintance.  I have for a long time been a great admirer of your father’s work.”

He took his place at the head of the table and, filling his glass, bowed towards Hamel.  Once more Gerald and his sister relapsed almost automatically into an indifferent and cultivated silence.  Hamel found civility towards the newcomer difficult.  Unconsciously his attitude became that of the other two.  He resented the intrusion.  He found himself regarding the advent of Doctor Sarson as possessing some secondary significance.  It was almost as though Mr. Fentolin preferred not to leave him alone with his niece and nephew.