Furnilove behaved admirably. Having assured himself that Miss Constantia was safe, and that I had the intruder under control, he went smartly to the telephone. . . . Amid Foe's ravings I heard him ringing up the exchange and, after a pause, summoning the doctor. "We had better have the spare room prepared again, after all," said Constantia. "We can't turn him out, in this state. . . . And there's a dressing-room, Roddy, next door, if you can put up with it. . . . But what has happened, God knows." "God knows," said I. "But he's a lunatic, unless I'm mistaken. We'll hear what the doctor says. . . . But he shan't sleep here, to trouble you. . . . Furnilove, whistle up and have a taxi ready. . . ." "Oh, what is he saying?" moaned Constantia as the body on the floor still twisted as if burrowing to hide itself, now muttering and again shouting in a voice that reverberated along the passage, "Kill him! Damn that dog!--kill him!" I knelt on the body and held it still. It was the body of my best friend, and I knelt on it, almost throttling him. "One can't ring up a lunatic asylum, at this hour of the morning," I found myself gasping. "He's for my flat, to-night, if your doctor will take charge of him with me." And with that I looked up and caught sight of Constantia's mother at the head of the staircase. "It's all right, Mrs. Denistoun," said I, glancing up. "It's my friend, Jack Foe--my friend that was. With the doctor's leave I'll get him back presently to Jermyn Street, where Jephson and I will look after him for the night. . . . Jephson used to worship him, and will wait on him as a slave." And with that--as it seemed amid the blasts of Furnilove's whistle in the porchway and the _toot-toot_ of a taxi, answering it--a quiet man stood above my shoulder. It was the doctor: and Furnilove had been so explicit on the 'phone that the doctor--whose name I learnt afterwards to be Tredgold--almost by magic whipped out a small bottle from his pocket. "Water," said he, after a look at the patient, "and a tumbler, quick!" Furnilove dashed into the library and returned with both. "Bromide," said Dr. Tredgold. "Let him take it down and then hold his head steady for a few minutes. . . . Right! . . . Now the question is, where to bestow him? I can't answer for him when the dose wears off: but it's no case to leave with two ladies." "There's a taxi, doctor," said I, "if we can get him into it. I have a flat in Jermyn Street, and a trustworthy manservant. I suggest that he'll do there for the night." "Right," said Dr. Tredgold again; "and the sooner the better. I'll come with you, when I've bound up this wound on his hand. It's a nasty one. . . . It looks to me--Yes, and it is, too!" "What is it?" I asked. "A dog-bite." "So _that_ was what he killed!" thought I, and aloud I said, "Thank God!" "Eh?" said the doctor. "A dog-bite's a queer thing to thank God for." "It might have been worse," I answered.