“Who’s there?” he challenged.
“Is anybody with you?” The voice was strangely feeble, but it was the voice of Roddy.
“Our friend Vicenti,” Peter cried, warningly.
At the same moment, Roddy, clad simply in his stockings, and dripping with water, stood swaying in the doorway.
“For Heaven’s sake!” protested Peter.
Roddy grinned foolishly, and unclasping his hands from the sides of the door, made an unsteady start toward the table on which stood the bottles and glasses.
“I want a drink,” he murmured.
“You want quinine!” cried Vicenti indignantly. “How dared you go swimming at night! It was madness! If the fever——”
He flew into the hall where he had left his medicine-case, and Peter ran for a bathrobe. As they returned with them there was a crash of broken glass, and when they reached the patio they found Roddy stretched at length upon the stones.
At the same moment a little, old man sprang from the garden and knelt beside him. It was Pedro.