Courtney felt his throat grow dry. "Who," he said, "was last in this room with you, Mr. Fane?" A look of mild wonder overspread Hubert's face. ~ "Now there," he replied, running his fingers lightly over his forehead, "is another remarkable thing. I cannot recall how I came here. The last thing I distinctly remember is sitting in the library reading the evening paper. This room has not associations so pleasant that I should sit in it by choice. I think it would soothe me to go and bathe my eyes. Yes, I must go and bathe my eyes."
"Hold on, Mr. Fane!" cried Courtney, as Hubert got to his feet and stood swaying on his spidery legs. "Don't get up! Stay there! You've been hurt."
"I have been what?"
"You've been hurt."
"My dear sir, what nonsense you talk," said Hubert mildly, and went over flat on his face on the floor.
Courtney looked round in desperation, wondering what to do here. He was in time to see another person looking at him.
Through the open window and the blowing curtains, stung with rain, projected the head and shoulders of Sir Henry Merrivale. H.M. was swathed round in a transparent oilskin with a hood, which covered everything including his hat, and was not a sight for weak nerves. Out of this he glared through misted spectacles.
"What's goin' on here?" he demanded. "Who put this ladder up to the window?"
"I did. I had to get in somehow." Courtney could have yelled with relief. "Come on in and tell us what's to be done."
"Oh. I thought…" H.M. broke off, and sniffed. He pointed a malignant forefinger. "What's wrong with him?"