Through his crack, Andrew saw the yellow turban waver and droop in fatigue like a crocus beaten by the wind. Now. He flung open the door and stepped into the room with his pistol clutched tight in sweating fingers. The shock of his abrupt appearance, to a gentleman who so obviously expected other visitors, must have been painful in the extreme, but Dr. Gentian bore it with admirable equanimity. He put his hand to his mouth once, slowly, while his face altered. Then he came forward to Andrew, smiling, with hand outstretched, as if the pistol presented at his heart had no more importance than a sprig of rosemary. "Ah, Andrew," he said cheerfully, "I had hardly hoped to see you before the morning. Come over by the fire, lad, and warm yourself--the house is chilly with the rain." "Keep your distance," said Andrew hoarsely, "Keep your distance, you miracle of hell, or I'll shoot your heart out." Dr. Gentian's hand dropped to his side. He looked puzzled and distressed. "Why lad," he said gently, "Are you still so fevered?" He smiled sympathetically, "Or did my playacting just now fright--how much did you hear of it?" he said in a swift breath. "Enough," said Andrew wretchedly. "Keep your distance, Dr. Gentian--I have no wish to murder you, but I leave your house tonight." "I forbid it," said Dr. Gentian, promptly, "As your physician, if not as Sparta's father." He came a little nearer. "Let me look at your eyes, lad--yes, they're bright." He shook his head. "Far too bright--and your pulse is beating like a hammer I'll warrant, and your skin--oh, I know the signs! It would be madness for you to ride in this rain--" with each phrase he approached a trifle, delicately, on slippered feet. "Let me feel your pulse a moment, lad," he said now, stretching out his hand again. Andrew beat it down with a gesture. "Stop," he said, "I know you. The lot of you. You've plucked me like a pigeon between you--you and your whory daughter and your wife that hangs up servant girls by the thumbs. You torturers. Come out, Caterina," he said, without turning his head. The door in the wall opened, the Minorcan girl stepped into the room. Dr. Gentian gazed at her for a moment. A tiny drop of blood gathered on one of her wrists and fell. Andrew, looking at the Doctor, thought he seemed more like a Cæsar than ever, with the color out of his cheeks, but this time he knew the face. It was no Julian or Augustan coin--it came of a later mintage--the silver was debased--the lids of the eyes grown heavy. Caligula at the Games staring down at a bloody sand, where something moved and cried--Tiberius killing flies like so many black slaves at the window of his villa above the cold, star-amethyst of the sea... The Minorcan girl shut the door slowly behind her. She held out her bloody wrists. She did not speak.