When I came to myself, I was lying upon the sofa in Dr. McCarthy’s study, and the Doctor himself was seated beside me. He appeared to be watching me intently and anxiously, for as I opened my eyes and looked about me he gave a great cry of relief. “Thank God!” he cried. “Thank God!” “Where is he?” I asked, looking round the room. As I did so, I became aware that the furniture was scattered in every direction, and that there were traces of an even more violent struggle than that in which I had been engaged. The Doctor sank his face between his hands. “They have him,” he groaned. “After these years of trial they have him again. But how thankful I am that he has not for a second time stained his hands in blood.” As the Doctor spoke I became aware that a man in the braided jacket of an inspector of police was standing in the doorway. “Yes, sir,” he remarked, “you have had a pretty narrow escape. If we had not got in when we did, you would not be here to tell the tale. I don’t know that I ever saw any one much nearer to the undertaker.” I sat up with my hands to my throbbing head. “Dr. McCarthy,” said I, “this is all a mystery to me. I should be glad if you could explain to me who this man is, and why you have tolerated him so long in your house.” “I owe you an explanation, Mr. Weld—and the more so since you have, in so chivalrous a fashion, almost sacrificed your life in my defence. There is no reason now for secrecy. In a word, Mr. Weld, this unhappy man’s real name is James McCarthy, and he is my only son.” “Your son?”