’Then send for some,—­to the tap downstairs, if that’s the nearest!  If this man dies before you’ve brought it I’ll have you locked up as sure as you’re a living woman.’

The arrival of the brandy was not long delayed,—­but the man on the bed had regained consciousness before it came.  Opening his eyes he looked up at the doctor bending over him.

’Hollo, my man! that’s more like the time of day!  How are you feeling?’

The patient stared hazily up at the doctor, as if his sense of perception was not yet completely restored,—­as if this big bearded man was something altogether strange.  Atherton bent down beside the doctor.

’I’m glad to see you looking better, Mr Holt.  You know me don’t you?  I’ve been running about after you all day long.’

‘You are—­you are—­’ The man’s eyes closed, as if the effort at recollection exhausted him.  He kept them closed as he continued to speak.

‘I know who you are.  You are—­the gentleman.’

’Yes, that’s it, I’m the gentleman,—­name of Atherton.—­Miss Lindon’s friend.  And I daresay you’re feeling pretty well done up, and in want of something to eat and drink,—­here’s some brandy for you.’

The doctor had some in a tumbler.  He raised the patient’s head, allowing it to trickle down his throat.  The man swallowed it mechanically, motionless, as if unconscious what it was that he was doing.  His cheeks flushed, the passing glow of colour caused their condition of extraordinary, and, indeed, extravagant attentuation, to be more prominent than ever.  The doctor laid him back upon the bed, feeling his pulse with one hand, while he stood and regarded him in silence.

Then, turning to the Inspector, he said to him in an undertone;

’If you want him to make a statement he’ll have to make it now, he’s going fast.  You won’t be able to get much out of him,—­he’s too far gone, and I shouldn’t bustle him, but get what you can.’

The Inspector came to the front, a notebook in his hand.

‘I understand from this gentleman—­’ signifying Atherton—­’that your name’s Robert Holt.  I’m an Inspector of police, and I want you to tell me what has brought you into this condition.  Has anyone been assaulting you?’

Holt, opening his eyes, glanced up at the speaker mistily, as if he could not see him clearly,—­still less understand what it was that he was saying.  Sydney, stooping over him, endeavoured to explain.

’The Inspector wants to know how you got here, has anyone been doing anything to you?  Has anyone been hurting you?’

The man’s eyelids were partially closed.  Then they opened wider and wider.  His mouth opened too.  On his skeleton features there came a look of panic fear.  He was evidently struggling to speak.  At last words came.

‘The beetle!’ He stopped.  Then, after an effort, spoke again.  ’The beetle!’

‘What’s he mean?’ asked the Inspector.