In the center of the room, flattened upon the floor, was Anthony's substantial little desk. Papers were around it and blotters and letters without number, and the old-fashioned inkwell had shot off its top and set a black streak across the beautiful Oriental carpet. Two chairs were on their sides, also, but the striking detail of the picture was furnished by David Prentiss. That young man was sprawled crazily, just beyond the desk, and beside him, holding him down with both hands, was Wilkins, tastefully arrayed in the flowered silk pajamas Anthony had discarded last year as too vivid. "I've got him, sir!" Wilkins' pale lips reported, as his master appeared. "I have him fast." "What'd he do?" Johnson Boller asked quickly. "Pull a knife on you, Wilkins?" "He'd not time for that, sir," Wilkins said grimly. "I think he stumbled over a chair and took the desk along with him, trying to get out. I always wake just as the clock strikes two, and stay awake ten minutes or more, and that's how I came to hear him and get him. He was just getting to his feet when I ran in and turned on the lights, and he----" "Let him up!" Anthony said sharply. "But don't let go of him!" Johnson Boller said harshly. "I missed the time by an hour, but I was right otherwise, Anthony. He's got the silver and your stick-pins and rings on him, and--what the dickens is he wearing?" Silence fell upon them for a little, as David struggled to his feet and looked about with a strange, trancelike stare--for there was some reason for Mr. Boller's query. David, apparently, had dressed for the street. He wore shoes not less than five sizes too long; he wore a bright brown sack coat which came almost to his knees, and blue trousers which were turned up until they all but met the coat. He had acquired a rakish felt hat, too, which rested mainly on the back of his neck. "He got them clothes out of the junk-closet at the end of the corridor, sir," Wilkins said quite breathlessly. "He must have been roaming the place quite a bit, to have found them, and----" "What were you trying to do, David?" Anthony snapped. "I don't know, sir," David said vaguely, passing a hand over his eyes in a manner far too dramatic to be convincing. "Where did you get those clothes?" "I have no idea, sir," David murmured. "Don't lie to me!" Anthony snapped. "What----" "I'm not lying, sir," David said in the same vague, far-away tone. "I must have been asleep, Mr. Fry. I remember having a terrible dream--it was about father and it seemed to me that he was dying. There were doctors all about the bed and father was calling to me, and it seemed to me that I must get to him, no matter what stood in the way. I remember trying to go to him, and then--why, I must have fallen there, sir, and wakened." For an instant the vagueness left his eyes and they looked straight at Anthony. "May I go to father now?" he asked. "That--that dream upset me." "Morning will do for father," Anthony said briefly.