The doctor was in the house almost as soon as the stranger.

‘Wants washing,’ he remarked, directly he saw him.

And that certainly was true,—­I never saw a man who stood more obviously in need of the good offices of soap and water.  Then he went through the usual medical formula, I watching all the while.  So far as I could see the man showed not the slightest sign of life.

‘Is he dead?’

’He will be soon, if he doesn’t have something to eat.  The fellow’s starving.’

The doctor asked the policeman what he knew of him

That sagacious officer’s reply was vague.  A boy had run up to him crying that a man was lying dead in the street.  He had straightway followed the boy, and discovered the stranger.  That was all he knew.

‘What is the matter with the man?’ I inquired of the doctor, when the constable had gone.

’Don’t know.—­It may be catalepsy, and it mayn’t.—­When I do know, you may ask again.’

Dr Cotes’ manner was a trifle brusque,—­particularly, I believe, to me.  I remember that once he threatened to box my ears.  When I was a small child I used to think nothing of boxing his.

Realising that no satisfaction was to be got out of a speechless man—­particularly as regards his mysterious references to Paul—­I went upstairs.  I found that papa was under the impression that he was suffering from a severe attack of gout.  But as he was eating a capital breakfast, and apparently enjoying it,—­while I was still fasting—­I ventured to hope that the matter was not so serious as he feared.

I mentioned nothing to him about the person whom I had found in the street,—­lest it should aggravate his gout.  When he is like that, the slightest thing does.

CHAPTER XXVI

A FATHER’S NO

Paul has stormed the House of Commons with one of the greatest speeches which even he has delivered, and I have quarrelled with papa.  And, also, I have very nearly quarrelled with Sydney.

Sydney’s little affair is nothing.  He actually still persists in thinking himself in love with me,—­as if, since last night, when he what he calls ‘proposed’ to me, he has not time to fall out of love, and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of it, he seems to consider himself entitled to make himself as disagreeable as he can.  That I should not mind,—­for Sydney disagreeable is about as nice as Sydney any other way; but when it comes to his shooting poisoned shafts at Paul, I object.  If he imagines that anything he can say, or hint, will lessen my estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair’s breadth, he has less wisdom even than I gave him credit for.  By the way, Percy Woodville asked me to be his wife tonight,—­which, also, is nothing; he has been trying to do it for the last three years,—­ though, under the circumstances, it is a little trying; but he would not spit venom merely because I preferred another man,—­and he, I believe, does care for me.