Foster Townsend was, ordinarily, a sound sleeper. Possessed of a good digestion, he seldom lay awake and seldom dreamed. In the small hours of the morning following his return from the “Pinafore” performance his sleep was disturbed. Just what had disturbed it he was not sure, but he lay with half-opened eyes awaiting the repetition of the sound, if sound there had actually been. He did not have to wait long. “Clang! Clang! Clang!” There was no doubt of the reality now. Some one was turning the handle of the spring bell on the front door of the mansion. He scratched a match and looked at his watch on the table by the bed. The time was after two o’clock. Who in the world would ring that bell at that hour? And why? He did not waste moments in speculation. Rising hurriedly he lit the lamp, pulled on his trousers and thrust his bare feet into slippers. Then, lamp in hand, he opened the door leading to the upper hall. The bell had clanged twice during his hasty dressing. He had not been the only one to hear it. There was a light in Esther’s room, and its gleam shone beneath her door. From behind that door she spoke. “Uncle Foster!” she called. “Uncle Foster, is that you? What is it? What is the matter?” Before he could reply Nabby Gifford’s shrill voice sounded from the far end of the passageway leading to the rooms in the ell. “Is that you, Cap’n Foster?” quavered Nabby, tremulously. “Are you awake, too?” Townsend, half-way down the stairs, grunted impatiently, “Do you think I’m walking in my sleep?” he growled. “Don’t be frightened, Esther,” he added. “I guess likely it’s Seymour ringing the bell. He must have forgotten his key.” He opened the heavy front door and, holding the lamp aloft, peered out. At first the darkness and the lamplight in his eyes made it impossible to distinguish the identity of the person standing upon the step. Then the person spoke and he recognized the voice. It was Bob Griffin, white-faced and very grave. “Captain Townsend--” began Bob. The captain interrupted. “Eh? You!” he exclaimed. “Why, what in thunder--?” Bob did not let him finish. “Seymour Covell is out there in the carriage,” he explained, quickly. “He is hurt. Badly hurt, I am afraid.” “Eh? Hurt?... What do you mean?” “I mean he is unconscious. One of the--one of your horses kicked him in the head. If some one can help me carry him into the house--” Townsend waited to hear no more. He put the lamp upon the table and darted to the stairs. “Varunas!” he roared. “Varunas! Turn out and lend a hand here. Lively!” Heedless of the scantiness of his apparel he ran down the walk to the carriage. On the rear cushions of the “two-seater” lay Seymour Covell, white and senseless, his head bound with a blood-stained handkerchief. “Good Lord A’mighty!” groaned Townsend. “Here, you and I can manage him, Griffin, I guess. You take his feet.... Varunas! Where in thunder _is_ Varunas?”