enough to procure, succeeding in all but stopping the bleeding, which, to a man so frail of body, so reduced in strength as Platzoff, would soon have been fatal.  A teaspoonful of brandy administered at brief intervals did its part as a restorative, and some minutes before the doctor’s arrival Ducie had the satisfaction of seeing his patient’s eyes open, and of hearing him murmur faintly a few soft guttural words in some language which the Captain judged to be his native Russ.

Platzoff had quite recovered his senses by the time the doctor arrived, but was still too feeble to do more than whisper a few unconnected words.  There were many claimants this forenoon on the doctor’s attention, and the services required by Platzoff at his hands had to be performed as expeditiously as possible.

“You must make up your mind to be a guest of ‘The Golden Griffin’ for at least a week to come,” he said, as he took up his hat preparatory to going.  “With quiet, and care, and a strict adherence to my instructions, I daresay that by the end of that time you will be sufficiently recovered to leave here for your own home.  Humanly speaking, sir, you owe your life to this gentleman,” indicating Ducie.  “But for his skill and promptitude you would have been a dead man before I reached you.”

Platzoff’s thin white hand was extended feebly.  Ducie took it in his sinewy palms and pressed it gently.  “You have this day done for me what I can never forget,” whispered the Russian, brokenly.  Then he closed his eyes, and seemed to sink off into a sleep of exhaustion.

Leaving strict injunctions with the chambermaid not to quit the room till he should come back, Captain Ducie went downstairs with the intention of revisiting the scene of the disaster.  He called in at the bar to obtain his favourite “thimbleful” of cognac, and there he found a very agreeable landlady, with whom he got into conversation respecting the accident.  Some five minutes had passed thus when the chambermaid came up to him.  “If you please, sir, the foreign gentleman has woke up, and is anxiously asking to see you.”

With a shrug of the shoulders and a slight lowering of his black eyebrows, Captain Ducie went back upstairs.  Platzoff’s eager eyes fixed him as he entered the room.  Ducie sat down close by the bed and said in a kindly tone:  “What is it?  What can I do for you?  Command me in any way.”

“My servant—­where is he?  And—­and my despatch box.  Valuable papers.  Try to find it.”

Ducie nodded and left the room.  The inquiries he made soon elicited the fact that Platzoff’s servant had been even more severely injured than his master, and was at that moment lying, more dead than alive, in a little room upstairs.  Slowly and musingly, with hands in pocket, Captain Ducie then took his way towards the scene of the accident.  “It may suit my book very well to make friends with this Russian,” he thought as he went along.  “He is no doubt very rich; and I am very poor.  In us the two extremes meet and form the perfect whole.  He might serve my purposes in more ways than one, and it is just as likely that his purposes might be served by me:  for a man like that must have purposes that want serving.  Nous verrons.  Meanwhile, I am his obedient servant to command.”