“He is going,” Mr. Fentolin admitted.  “I wash my hands of the man.  He has given us an infinite amount of trouble, has monopolised Doctor Sarson when he ought to have been attending upon me—­a little more hot milk, if you please, Esther—­and now, although he really is not fit to leave his room, he insists upon hurrying off to keep an appointment somewhere on the Continent.  The little operation we spoke of last night was successful, as Doctor Sarson prophesied, and Mr. Dunster was quite conscious and able to sit up early this morning.  We telephoned at six o’clock to Norwich for a surgeon, who is now on his way over here, but he will not wait even to see him.  What can you do with a man so obstinate!”

Neither Hamel nor Gerald had resumed their places.  The former, after a moment’s hesitation, turned towards the door.

“I think,” he said, “that I should like to see the last of Mr. Dunster.”

“Pray do,” Mr. Fentolin begged.  “I have said good-by to him myself, and all that I hope is that next time you offer a wayfarer the hospitality of St. David’s Hall, Gerald, he may be a more tractable person.  This morning I shall give myself a treat.  I shall eat an old-fashioned English breakfast.  Close the door after you, if you please, Gerald.”

Hamel, with Gerald by his side, hurried out into the hall.  Just as they crossed the threshold they saw Mr. Dunster, wrapped from head to foot in his long ulster, a soft hat upon his head and one of Mr. Fentolin’s cigars in his mouth, step from the bottom stair into the hall and make his way with somewhat uncertain footsteps towards the front door.  Doctor Sarson walked on one side, and Meekins held him by the arm.  He glanced towards Gerald and his companion and waved the hand which held his cigar.

“So long, my young friend!” he exclaimed.  “You see, I’ve got them to let me make a start.  Next time we go about the country in a saloon car together, I hope we’ll have better luck.  Say, but I’m groggy about the knees!”

“You’d better save your breath,” Doctor Sarson advised him grimly.  “You haven’t any to spare now, and you’ll want more than you have before you get to the end of your journey.  Carefully down the steps, mind.”

They helped him into the car.  Hamel and Gerald stood under the great stone portico, watching.

“Well, I’m jiggered!” the boy exclaimed, under his breath.

Hamel was watching the proceedings with a puzzled frown.  To his surprise, neither Doctor Sarson nor Meekins were accompanying the departing man.

“He’s off, right enough,” Hamel declared, as the car glided away.  “Do you understand it?  I don’t.”

Gerald did not speak for several moments.  His eyes were still fixed upon the back of the disappearing car.  Then he turned towards Hamel.

“There isn’t much,” he said softly, “that Mr. Fentolin doesn’t know.  If that detective was really on his way here, there wasn’t any chance of keeping Mr. Dunster to himself.  You see, the whole story is common property.  And yet, there’s something about the affair that bothers me.”