"Our train ran off the line and pitched down an embankment. Mr.
Dunster has concussion of the brain. He and I were taken to a
miserable little inn near Wymondham. From there I hired a motor-car
and brought him here."

"You hired a motor-car and brought him here," Mr. Fentolin repeated
softly. "My dear boy--forgive me if I find this a little hard to
understand. You say that you have brought him here. Had he nothing
to say about it?"

"He was unconscious when we picked him up," Gerald explained. "He
is unconscious now. The doctor said he would remain so for at least
twenty-four hours, and it didn't seem to me that the journey would
do him any particular harm. The roof had been stripped off the inn
where we were, and the place was quite uninhabitable, so we should
have had to have moved him somewhere. We put him in the tonneau of
the car and covered him up. They have carried him now into a
bedroom, and Sarson is looking after him."

Mr. Fentolin sat quite silent. His eyes blinked once or twice, and
there was a curious curve about his lips.

"You have done well, my boy," he pronounced slowly. "Your scheme
of bringing him here sounds a little primitive, but success
justifies everything."

Mr. Fentolin raised to his lips and blew softly a little gold
whistle which hung from a chain attached to his waistcoat. Almost
immediately the door opened. A man entered, dressed somberly in