Whilst good Madame Beju, whose legs were shaking under her, was carrying out the doctor's orders, the superintendent of police kept watch to see that nothing was touched. The doctor's attention was concentrated on Jacques Dollon. Monsieur Agram was searching for some indication which might throw light on the drama. So far he had been unable to formulate any hypothesis. Should the moribund painter return to consciousness, the explanation he could give would certainly clear up the situation. At this point in the superintendent's cogitations, the doctor called out: 'He lives! He lives! Bring me a glass of water!' Jacques Dollon was returning to consciousness! Slowly, painfully, his features contracting as at the remembrance of a horrible nightmare, the young man stretched his limbs, opened his eyes: he turned a dull gaze on those about him, a gaze which became one of stupefaction when he perceived these unknown faces gathered round his bed. His eyes fell on his housekeeper. He murmured: 'Mme ... Be-ju ... je...,' and fell back into unconsciousness. 'Is he dead?' whispered Monsieur Agram. The doctor smiled: 'Be reassured, monsieur: he lives; but he finds it terribly difficult to wake up. He has certainly swallowed some powerful narcotic and is still under its influence; but its effects will soon pass off now.' The good doctor spoke the truth. In a short time Jacques Dollon, making a violent effort, sat up. Casting scared and bewildered glances about him, he cried: 'Who are you? What do you want of me?... Ah, the ruffians! The bandits!' 'There is nothing to fear, monsieur. I am simply the doctor they have called in to attend to you! Be calm!... You must recover your senses, and tell us what has happened!' Jacques Dollon pressed his hands to his forehead, as though in pain: 'How heavy my head is!' he muttered. 'What has happened to me?... Let me see!... Wait.... Ah ... yes ... that's it!' At a sign from the doctor, the superintendent had stationed himself beside the bed, behind the young painter. Keeping a finger on his patient's pulse, the doctor asked him, in a fatherly fashion, to tell him all about it. 'It is like this,' replied Jacques Dollon.... 'Yesterday evening I was sitting in my arm-chair reading. It was getting late. I had been working hard.... I was tired.... All of a sudden I was surrounded by masked men, clothed in long black garments: they flung themselves on me. Before I could make a movement I was gagged, bound with cords.... I felt something pointed driven into my leg--into my arm.... Then an overpowering drowsiness overcame me, the strangest visions passed before my eyes; I lost consciousness rapidly.... I wanted to move, to cry out ... in vain ... there was no strength in me ... powerless ... and that's all!' 'Is there nothing more?' asked the doctor. After a minute's reflection Jacques answered: 'That is all.'