“Eh?” said the doctor.

The Archdeacon raised his eyebrows.  “My dear Ursula, I thought you had made the Morebury Cottage Hospital the model of its kind.”

“Its kind is not for people who carry about Sir Thomas Browne in their pocket,” retorted the disingenuous lady.  “If I turned him out of my house, doctor, and anything happened to him, I should have to reckon with his people.  He stays here.  You’ll kindly arrange for nurses.  The red room, Wilkins,—­no, the green—­the one with the small oak bed.  You can’t nurse people properly in four-posters.  It has a south-east aspect”—­she turned to the doctor—­“and so gets the sun most of the day.  That’s quite right, isn’t it?”

“Ideal.  But I warn you, Miss Winwood, you may be letting yourself in for a perfectly avoidable lot of trouble.”

“I like trouble,” said Miss Winwood.

“You’re certainly looking for it,” replied the doctor glancing at Paul and stuffing his stethoscope into his pocket.  “And in this case, I can promise you worry beyond dreams of anxiety.”

The word of Ursula Winwood was law for miles around.  Dr. Fuller, rosy, fat and fifty, obeyed, like everyone else; but during the process of law-making he had often, before now, played the part of an urbane and gently satirical leader of the opposition.

She flashed round on him, with a foolish pain through her heart that caused her to catch her breath.  “Is he as bad as that?” she asked quickly.

“As bad as that,” said the doctor, with grave significance.  “How he managed to get here is a mystery!” Within a quarter-of-an-hour the unconscious Paul, clad in a suit of Colonel Winwood’s silk pyjamas, lay in a fragrant room, hung with green and furnished in old, black oak.  Never once, in all his life, had Paul Kegworthy lain in such a room.  And for him a great house was in commotion.  Messages went forth for nurses and medicines and the paraphernalia of a luxurious sick-chamber, and-the lady of the house being absurdly anxious—­ for a great London specialist, whose fee, in Dr. Fuller’s quiet eyes, would be amusingly fantastic.

“It seems horrible to search the poor boy’s pockets,” said Miss Winwood, when, after these excursions and alarms the Archdeacon and herself had returned to the library; “but we must try to find out who he is and communicate with his people.  Savelli.  I’ve never heard of them.  I wonder who they are.”

“There is an historical Italian family of that name,” said the Archdeacon.

“I was sure of it,” said Miss Winwood.

“Of what?”

“That his people—­are—­well—­all right.”

“Why are you sure?”