"It is here by the side of your bed."

"And my pocket-book?"

"It is on your dressing-table."

"Have any of my things been looked at?"

"Only so far as was necessary to discover your identity," the doctor
assured him. "Don't talk too much. The nurse is bringing you some
beef tea."

"When," Mr. Dunster enquired, "shall I be able to continue my
journey?"

"That depends upon many things," the doctor replied.

Mr. Dunster drank his beef tea and felt considerably stronger. His
head still ached, but his memory was returning.

"There was a young man in the carriage with me," he asked presently.
"Mr. Gerald something or other I think he said his name was?"

"Fentolin," the doctor said. "He is unhurt. This is his relative's
house to which you have been brought."

Mr. Dunster lay for a time with knitted brows. Once more the name
of Fentolin seemed somehow familiar to him, seemed somehow to bring
with it to his memory a note of warning. He looked around the room
fretfully. He looked into the nurse's face, which he disliked