“He never complained.”

“A brave man like that never does complain.  Besides, he took great care of himself.  When he came back to London he was fairly well.  I think he must have done something rash to bring on a recurrence of his illness.  Within a few days of his arrival he grew sick again.  In some way he over-exerted himself.”

“I don’t think he ever did,” said Mallow, doubtfully.

“But I am certain of it.  Within a week of his arrival here he had a relapse.  I taxed him with going out too much and with over-exertion, but he declined to answer me.”

“Will he become conscious again?”

“I think so, in a few hours, but I cannot be sure.  However, you need not be alarmed, Mr. Mallow.  His affairs are all right.  In view of his illness I advised him to make his will.  He said that he had done so, and that everything was in apple-pie order.”

“It is not that, doctor.  I wish to ask him some questions.  Will you remain here?”

“Till the end,” replied Yeo, significantly; “but it will not take place for a few hours, so far as I can see.”

“I wish to go out for an hour.  Can I, with safety?”

“Certainly.  Lord Caranby will live for some time yet.”

Mallow nodded and left the bedroom, while Yeo returned to the bed upon which lay the unconscious form of the old man.  Cuthbert took a walk to the end of the street where the wreckage of the motor car had now been removed, and asked the policeman what had become of the victims.  He was informed that the chauffeur, in a dying condition, had been removed to the Charing Cross Hospital, and that the body of the old woman—­ so the constable spoke—­had been taken to the police station near at hand.  “She’s quite dead and very much smashed up,” was the man’s report.

Mallow thanked him with half-a-crown and, having learned the whereabouts of the police station, he went there.  He introduced himself to the inspector and, as the nephew of Lord Caranby, received every attention, particularly when he described how the vitriol had been thrown.  Cuthbert thought it as well to say this, as the waiters at the Avon Hotel would certainly inform the police if he did not.  He looked at the body of the miserable woman in its strange mask of age.  “She went to see Lord Caranby in disguise,” said the inspector, “you can see her face is made up.  Does his lordship know who she is?”

“Yes.  And Mr. Jennings, the detective, knows also.”

“Perhaps you do yourself, Mr. Mallow?”

Cuthbert nodded.  “She is Maraquito, the—­”

“What! the gambling-house coiner we have been looking for?”

“The same.  Jennings can tell you more about the matter than I can.”

“I’ll get Mr. Jennings to come here as soon as he is on his feet, and that will be to-morrow most probably.  But why did Maraquito throw vitriol at Lord Caranby?”

“Jennings can tell you that,” said Mallow, suppressing the fact that the vitriol had been meant for Juliet.  “Perhaps it had something to do with the raid made on the unfinished house which, you know, belonged to my uncle.”