"Is there nothing we can do?" said Mr. Ringrose.
"He will be all right in a minute or two."
"I am sorry I was a party to this business!"
"Not a bit of it, my dear sir! It was what he deserved. Sorry I told you your father was a detective, Ringrose. I wanted you to believe me for once before you saw him, that was all. You'll never believe me again—and that's what I deserve."
He had looked round for a moment from the senseless man; now he bent over him once more; and father and son stepped forward anxiously. The high forehead, the dirty, iron-grey hair, and the long lean nose, were all that they could see; the glistening skin was of a leaden pallor.
"Is it more than a faint?" asked Mr. Ringrose. "Ah! I am thankful."
The blue eyes had opened; the flowing beard was moving from side to side; a feeble hand feeling for a waistcoat pocket.
"My snuff-box," he whined. "I want my snuff-box."
Harry found it and gave it to him; and after the first pinch Scrafton was sitting upright; after the second he was struggling to his feet with their help, and scowling at them all in turn. He shook off their hands as soon as he felt his feet under him; and with a fine effort he tried to stalk, but could only totter, to the door. Harry was very loth to let him go, but it was his father who held the door open, while Lowndes nodded his approval of the course.
But in the doorway Scrafton turned and glared at the trio like a sick grey wolf, and shook an unclean fist in their faces before he went.