Maurice made no attempt to rise. "Right you are," he answered languidly. "I'll wait and hear the verdict." I again felt a rich desire to box his ears, but, consoling myself with the reflection that it was possibly only a pleasure delayed, I walked out of the room, closing the door behind me. I met the doctor in the hall. A grey-haired, clean-shaven man of about fifty, with a pompous but rather kind face, he came forward at once and shook my hand. "Good morning, Mr. Northcote," he said. "I'm sorry to hear your butler's ill. A most excellent fellow, I should think." "Yes," I said; "Milford is by way of being rather a treasure. Come along down and have a look at him, doctor. I'm afraid he's really bad." I led the way down the stone staircase, and we entered the room together. If anything, Milford looked worse than when I had seen him before. There were mottled patches on his grey face and his lips were twisted with pain. When he saw us, however, he made a faint effort to raise himself in bed. Ritchie stepped forward at once. "No, no," he said kindly; "you must lie quite still." Then, pulling up a chair, he began to ask a few curt questions, at the same time taking a brief examination of his patient's eyes and pulse. His face was rather grave. "I am afraid you have eaten something that has disagreed with you very badly," he said at last. Milford lay back on the pillow, his lips twitching faintly. "Am I going to die, sir?" he whispered. "Oh, dear, no," said Ritchie, with an encouraging smile. "We shall have you perfectly well in a week or so. Just for the moment, however, you'll have to keep very still and do exactly what you're told. I shall send you round a nurse at once, and look you up again myself this afternoon." Milford made a feeble motion as if to protest against this luxury. "That's all right, Milford," I said. "You are to do just what the doctor tells you, and not bother your head about anything." He thanked me with a faint smile, and after tucking him up in bed, we left the room. As soon as we were in the passage, I turned to Ritchie. "Well," I said, "what's the matter?" There was a short silence. "The matter," said Ritchie, very quietly, "is that the man has been poisoned." CHAPTER VI I don't know whether I started, but the word gave me an unpleasant jar. "Poisoned!" I repeated. "Do you mean poisoned purposely?" Ritchie frowned. "I can't say. It's a curious case, but there's no doubt that he's suffering from some form of poisoning. It might be one of half a dozen." "What are we to do?" I asked. "At present," said Ritchie, "the only thing to do is to give him a strong emetic and keep him warm. I'll send you a nurse straight away, from St. George's, with full instructions. I shall come round again myself later in the morning."