His lordship looked next at me.

“When did the change happen?” he asked.

I told him the time.

“Has Lady Glyde been in the room since?”

I replied that she had not.  The doctor had absolutely forbidden her to come into the room on the evening before, and had repeated the order again in the morning.

“Have you and Mrs. Rubelle been made aware of the full extent of the mischief?” was his next question.

We were aware, I answered, that the malady was considered infectious.  He stopped me before I could add anything more.

“It is typhus fever,” he said.

In the minute that passed, while these questions and answers were going on, Mr. Dawson recovered himself, and addressed the Count with his customary firmness.

“It is not typhus fever,” he remarked sharply.  “I protest against this intrusion, sir.  No one has a right to put questions here but me.  I have done my duty to the best of my ability—­”

The Count interrupted him—­not by words, but only by pointing to the bed.  Mr. Dawson seemed to feel that silent contradiction to his assertion of his own ability, and to grow only the more angry under it.

“I say I have done my duty,” he reiterated.  “A physician has been sent for from London.  I will consult on the nature of the fever with him, and with no one else.  I insist on your leaving the room.”

“I entered this room, sir, in the sacred interests of humanity,” said the Count.  “And in the same interests, if the coming of the physician is delayed, I will enter it again.  I warn you once more that the fever has turned to typhus, and that your treatment is responsible for this lamentable change.  If that unhappy lady dies, I will give my testimony in a court of justice that your ignorance and obstinacy have been the cause of her death.”

Before Mr. Dawson could answer, before the Count could leave us, the door was opened from the sitting-room, and we saw Lady Glyde on the threshold.

“I must and will come in,” she said, with extraordinary firmness.

Instead of stopping her, the Count moved into the sitting-room, and made way for her to go in.  On all other occasions he was the last man in the world to forget anything, but in the surprise of the moment he apparently forgot the danger of infection from typhus, and the urgent necessity of forcing Lady Glyde to take proper care of herself.

To my astonishment Mr. Dawson showed more presence of mind.  He stopped her ladyship at the first step she took towards the bedside.  “I am sincerely sorry, I am sincerely grieved,” he said.  “The fever may, I fear, be infectious.  Until I am certain that it is not, I entreat you to keep out of the room.”

She struggled for a moment, then suddenly dropped her arms and sank forward.  She had fainted.  The Countess and I took her from the doctor and carried her into her own room.  The Count preceded us, and waited in the passage till I came out and told him that we had recovered her from the swoon.