Reluctantly, Claire came away from the telephone and approached the couch.

“You’re sure?” she asked, in doubt.

“I’ve had some experience with this sort of thing, on the other side,” he answered.  “The man will come to himself in another few minutes.  I’ve loosened his collar and belt and shoelaces.  He—­”

“Have you any idea who could have tried to kill you?” she asked, shuddering.

“Yes!” he made sullen answer.  “And so have you.  Let it go at that.”

“You—­you think it was one of—?”

“Hush!” he ordered, uneasily.  “This fellow may not be quite as unconscious as he looks.  Sometimes, people get their hearing back, before they open their eyes.  Come into the library, a minute.  I want to speak to you.  Oh, don’t look like that, about leaving him alone!  He’ll be all right, I tell you!  His pulse is coming back, strong.  Come in here.”

He laid one big arm on her slight shoulder and led her, half-forcibly, into the adjoining room.  Thence, Gavin could hear the rumble of his deep voice.  But he could catch no word the man said, though once he heard Claire speak in vehement excitement, and could hear Milo’s harsh interruption and his command that she lower her voice.

Presently, the two came back into the hall.  As Standish neared the couch, Gavin Brice opened his eyes, with considerable effort, and blinked dazedly up at the gigantic figure in the torn and muddy white silk suit.

Then Brice’s blinking gaze drifted to Claire, as she stood, pale and big-eyed, above him.  He essayed a feeble smile of recognition, and let his glance wander in well-acted amazement about the high-veiled hallway.

“Feeling better?” queried Milo.  “Here, drink this.”

Gavin essayed to speak.  His pose was not wholly assumed.  For his head still swam and was intolerably painful.

He sipped at the brandy which Standish held to his sagging lips.  And, glancing toward Claire, he smiled, a somewhat wavery and wan smile.

“Don’t try to say anything!” she begged.  “Wait till you are feeling better.”

“I’m I’m all right,” he assured her, albeit rather shakily, his voice seeming to come from a distance.  “I got a rap over the head.  And it put me out, for a while.  But—­I’m collecting the pieces.  I’ll be as good as—­as new, in a few minutes.”

The fragments of dialogue between brother and sister had supplemented his returning memory.  Mentally, he was himself again, keen, secretive, alert, every bit of him warily on guard.  But he cursed the fact that Standish had drawn Claire into the library, out of earshot, when he spoke of the man who had attacked him.

Then, with a queer revulsion of feeling, he cursed himself for an eavesdropper, and was ashamed of having listened at all.  For the first time, he began to hate the errand that had brought him to Florida.

Bobby Burns caused a mild diversion, as Brice’s voice trailed away.  At Gavin’s first word, the collie sprang from his self-appointed guard-post at the foot of the couch, and came dancing up to the convalescent man, thrusting his cold nose rapturously against Brice’s face, trying to lick his cheek, whimpering in joy at his idol’s recovery.