Affairs at the "Golden Key" grew steadily worse and worse. Gunn
dominated the place, and his vile personality hung over it like a shadow.
Appeals to the innkeeper were in vain; his health was breaking fast, and
he moodily declined to interfere. Gunn appointed servants of his own
choosing-brazen maids and foul-mouthed men. The old patrons ceased to
frequent the "Golden Key," and its bedrooms stood empty. The maids
scarcely deigned to take an order from Joan, and the men spoke to her
familiarly. In the midst of all this the innkeeper, who had complained
once or twice of vertigo, was seized with a fit.

Joan, flying to him for protection against the brutal advances of Gunn,
found him lying in a heap behind the door of his small office, and in her
fear called loudly for assistance. A little knot of servants collected,
and stood regarding him stupidly. One made a brutal jest. Gunn,
pressing through the throng, turned the senseless body over with his
foot, and cursing vilely, ordered them to carry it upstairs.

Until the surgeon came, Joan, kneeling by the bed, held on to the
senseless hand as her only protection against the evil faces of Gunn and
his proteges. Gunn himself was taken aback, the innkeeper's death at
that time by no means suiting his aims.

The surgeon was a man of few words and fewer attainments, but under his
ministrations the innkeeper, after a long interval, rallied. The half-
closed eyes opened, and he looked in a dazed fashion at his surroundings.
Gunn drove the servants away and questioned the man of medicine. The
answers were vague and interspersed with Latin. Freedom from noise and
troubles of all kinds was insisted upon and Joan was installed as nurse,
with a promise of speedy assistance.