without a reputation."

He left the room, and Mr. Dunster closed his eyes. His slumbers,
however, were not altogether peaceful ones. All the time there
seemed to be a hammering inside his head, and from somewhere back
in his obscured memory the name of Fentolin seemed to be continually
asserting itself. From somewhere or other, the amazing sense which
sometimes gives warning of danger to men of adventure, seemed to
have opened its feelers. He rested because he was exhausted, but
even in his sleep he was ill at ease.

The doctor, with the telegrams in his hand, made his way down a
splendid staircase, past the long picture gallery where masterpieces
of Van Dyck and Rubens frowned and leered down upon him; descended
the final stretch of broad oak stairs, crossed the hail, and entered
his master's rooms. Mr. Fentolin was sitting before the open window,
an easel in front of him, a palette in his left hand, painting with
deft, swift touches.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, without looking around, "it is my friend the
doctor, my friend Sarson, M.D. of London, L.R.C.P. and all the
rest of it. He brings with him the odour of the sick room. For a
moment or two, just for a moment, dear friend, do not disturb me.
Do not bring any alien thoughts into my brain. I am absorbed, you
see--absorbed. It is a strange problem of colour, this."

He was silent for several moments, glancing repeatedly out of the
window and back to his canvas, painting all the time with swift and
delicate precision.