es, was sitting on
the side of the bed. Standing within a few feet of him, watching him
all the time with the subtle intentness of a cat watching a mouse, stood
Meekins. Mr. Dunster's head was still bound, although the bandage had
slipped a little, apparently in some struggle. His face was chalklike,
and he was breathing quickly.

"So you've come at last!" he exclaimed, a little truculently. "Are you
Mr. Fentolin?"

Mr. Fentolin gravely admitted his identity. His eyes rested upon his
guest with an air of tender interest. His face was almost beautiful.

"You are the owner of this house--I am underneath your roof--is that
so?"

"This is certainly St. David's Hall," Mr. Fentolin replied. "It really
appears as though your conclusions were correct."

"Then will you tell me why I am kept a prisoner here?"

Mr. Fentolin's expression was for a moment clouded. He seemed hurt.

"A prisoner," he repeated softly. "My dear Mr. Dunster, you have surely
forgotten the circumstances which procured for me the pleasure of this
visit; the condition in which you arrived here--only, after all, a very
few hours ago?"

"The circumstances," Mr. Dunster declared drily, "are to me still
inexplicable. At Liverpool Street Station I was accosted by a young man
who informed me that his name was Gerald Fentolin, and that he was on
his way to The Hague to play in a golf tournament. His story seemed
entirely probable, and I permitted him a seat in the special train I had
chartered for Harwich. There was an accident and I received this blow to
my head--only a trifling affair, after all. I come to my senses to find
myself here. I do not know exactly what part of the world you call this,
but from the fact that I can see the sea from my window, it must be some
considerable distance from the scene of the accident. I find that
my dressing-case has been opened, my pocket-book examined, and I am
apparently a prisoner. I ask you, Mr. Fentolin, for an explanation."

Mr. Fentolin smiled reassuringly.

"My dear sir," he said, "my dear Mr. Dunster, I believe I may have
the pleasure of calling you--your conclusions seem to me just a little
melodramatic. My nephew--Gerald Fentolin--did what I consider the
natural thing, under the circumstances. You had been courteous to him,
and he repaid the obligation to the best of his ability. The accident to
your train happened in a dreary part of the country, some thirty
miles from here. My nephew adopted a course wh