“My God, what’s that?” cried Eve Bartholomew, before someone reached above Mrs. Belvoir’s head and lit the bright globe once more. Mrs. Belvoir turned, intending angry remonstrance, but her voice was stilled by one look at Doctor Aire.
He was coatless and collarless, and his shirt and trousers were miry. His small yellow head seemed to have turned almost white, save for a ragged cut across his forehead, and while he spoke the man leaned hard on the back of the Brocade de Lyons couch as if in the last throes of exhaustion.
Everyone was standing up; my presence excited no surprise.
“Maryvale’s—somewhere near.”
“Doctor! What’s happened to you?” cried Crofts.
“I’ve had a bout with him on the tennis court. He was a few stone too heavy for me. I saw him heading for the House—probably wants something that’s in his room. I’m afraid—he’s insane.”
“What shall we do, then?” asked Crofts, become very cool in the crisis.
“Keep a watch at every entrance, enough of us at each place to tackle him safely.”
“Stephen, you mustn’t go out again. You’ve done too much already,” said Alberta.
But Aire, though he swayed, hung on grittily, and shook his head. “No, thanks. A stiff drink will put me right. Just have the men-servants in here, Crofts, and—”