"Practically, I think. It's rather difficult to say for certain, because we don't know what the poison was until we've analysed it. However, he's sleeping now, and his pulse is regular if a bit weak. The only bad symptom is a curious sort of mental torpor he seems to be suffering from. It's probably the result of weakness, but we shall have to watch him carefully. I've told the nurse to ring up and let me know how he is when he wakes." "Well, that seems fairly satisfying, on the whole," I said. "I've sent in a new man from Seagrave's to look after things, so Milford will be able to get away for a bit as soon as he's better." "The best thing he could do," returned the doctor. "A couple of days at Brighton will pick him up better than any medicine. I'll let you know about the poison as soon as I've got the analyst's report." "Yes, do," I said; and then, thinking that the conversation was taking a rather delicate turn, I added: "I must go now. I've got a meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel at three o'clock. See you to-morrow morning." "Right you are. Good-bye." "Good-bye," I echoed, and hung up the receiver. The knowledge that Milford was out of danger was a considerable relief. I liked the man, and shared Northcote's opinion as to his trustworthiness; while, apart from that, if he had died I should certainly have been placed in a devilish awkward situation. A police inquiry into the private doings of Mr. Stuart Northcote's _ménage_ was a form of excitement which I felt that I could very well dispense with. Getting into my taxi, I started off down Coventry Street, stopping at the Post Office in Leicester Square to send off my wire to Billy. I arrived at the Cannon Street Hotel just as a quarter past three was striking. I was a little late on purpose, as befitted the dignity of a King of Finance. A waiter who was standing in the hall evidently recognised me as Northcote, for he bowed profusely, and without comment conducted me upstairs to a large room where a number of prosperous-looking gentlemen in frock-coats were sitting round a long table. They one and all greeted me with a respectful courtesy that still further heightened my opinion of Northcote's abilities. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," I said, seating myself in a vacant chair at the head of the table. There was a chorus of "Good afternoon, Mr. Northcote," and then a solemn-looking old buffer at my right hand took up a printed paper and began ingratiatingly to explain to me how far the proceedings had gone.