He began to fumble with the knots of my bonds too hastily and
impatiently for effectiveness. I was trying to stoop over far enough to
see what he was doing when my eye caught the shadow of a moving figure
outside. An instant later Tim Westmore, the English groom attached to
the Morgan stallion, came cautiously through the door, which he closed
behind him. I attempted unobtrusively to warn Brower, but he only looked
up, nodded vaguely, and continued his fumbling efforts to free me.
Westmore glanced at us all curiously, but went at once to the big
windows, which he proceeded to swing shut. Then he came over to us,
pushed Brower one side, and most expeditiously untied the knots. I stood
up stretching in the luxury of freedom, then turned to perform a like
office for Miss Emory. But Brower was by now frantic. He seized my arm
and fairly shook me, big as I was, in the urgence of his desire. He was
rapidly losing all control and caution.

"Let him have it, sir," urged Westmore in a whisper. "I'll free the
young lady."

I gave Brower the hypodermic case. He ran to the wash bowl for water.
During the process of preparation he uttered little animal sounds under
his breath. When the needle had sunk home he lay back in a chair and
closed his eyes.

In the meantime, I had been holding a whispered colloquy with Westmore.

"He sneaked in on me at dark, sir," he told me, "on foot. I don't know
how he got in without being seen. They'd have found his tracks anyway in
the morning. I don't think he knew quite what he wanted to do. Him and
me were old pals, and he wanted to ask me about things. He didn't expect