Somehow he found his hands round Unity's cheeks and his eyes looking into hers; she suffered the nervous clasp gladly, knowing, in her pure girl's heart, that he was a good man, that he loved Stellamaris as she loved John, and that he loved John as she loved Stellamaris. Brother and sister, in a spiritual relation singularly perfect in this imperfect world, they stood, the gentleman of birth and breeding, the artist, the finely fibred man of wide culture, and Unity Blake, whose mother had died of drink in a slum in Notting Hill Gate a year after her father had died in prison, and of whom Miss Lindon despaired of ever making a lady. There came a twisting of the door handle. They fell apart. Then came a tapping at the door. Herold turned the key and opened. It was Phoebe, elderly and gaunt. She clasped her hands tight in front of her. “Oh, sir! oh, sir!” she said. “What's the matter?” “Master--he's found. Your servant has just telephoned. Mr. Risca 's met with an accident and is at your house, and will you please go there at once?” THEY found him lying on the sofa, a pitiable object, the whole of his head from the back of his neck to his eyebrows swathed in bandages. His clothes were mere limp and discoloured wrappings. They looked as though they had been wet through, for the red of his tie had run into his shirt-front and collar. The coarse black sprouts on pallid cheek and upper lip gave him an appearance of indescribable grime. His eyes were sunken and feverish. Unity uttered a little cry as she saw him, but checked it quickly, and threw herself on her knees by his side. “Thank God you 're alive!” He put his hand on her head. “I 'm all right,” he said faintly; “but you should n't have come. That 's why I did n't go straight home. I did n't want to frighten you. I 'm a ghastly sight, and I should have scared your aunt out of her wits.” “But how, in Heaven's name, man,” said Herold, “did you get into this state?” “Something hit me over the head, and I spent the night in rain and sea-water on the rocks.” “On the rocks? Where? At Southcliff?” “Yes,” said John, “at Southcliff. I was a fool to go down, but I 've been a fool all my life, so a bit more folly does n't matter.” He closed his eyes. “Give me a drink, Wallie--some brandy.” Herold went into the dining-room, which adjoined the library, and returned with decanter, syphon, and glasses. He poured out a brandy and soda for John and watched him drink it; then he realized that he, too, would be the better for stimulant. With an abstemious man's idea of taking brandy as medicine, he poured out for himself an extravagant dose, mixed a little soda-water with it, and gulped it down. “That 'll do me good,” said John; but on saying it he fell to shivering, despite the heat of the summer afternoon. “You 've caught a chill,” cried Unity. She counselled home and bed at once.