"There's a couch-seat in the music-room," Parks suggested, and the three of us bore the still unconscious man to it.
Then Godfrey and I sat down and waited, while he gasped his way back to life.
"Though he can't really tell us much," Godfrey observed. "In fact, I doubt if he'll be willing to tell anything. But his face, when he looked at the picture, told us all we need to know."
Thus reminded, I took the photograph out of the pocket into which I had slipped it, and looked at it again.
"Where did you get it?" I asked.
"The police photographer made some copies. This is one of them."
"But what made you suspect that the two women were the same?"
"I don't just know," answered Godfrey, reflectively. "They were both French—and Rogers spoke of the red lips; somehow it seemed probable. Mr. Grady will find some things he doesn't know in to-morrow's Record. But then he usually does. This time, I'm going to rub it in. Hello," he added, "our friend is coming around."
I looked at Rogers and saw that his eyes were open. They were staring at us as though wondering who we were. Godfrey passed an arm under his head and held the glass of water to his lips.
"Take a swallow of this," he said, and Rogers obeyed mechanically, still staring at him over the rim of the glass, "How do you feel?"