"_It's all nothing, there's nobody, all nothing--dark--_," the voice was clogged and drowsy--if a blanket could speak, the voice might have been so. The boy looked hopelessly at the valet. Prince, an alert little man with a yellow vivacious countenance and heavy, black eye-brows, smiled superior. "When Mr. Gilbert really have copped the brewer--excuse the expression, sir--he generally says a few words without much meaning. Leave him to me if you please." He wheeled a little table up to the arm-chair, and caught hold of Lothian's shoulder, shaking him. "What? What? My soup?" "Yessir, your soup." The man's recuperative power was marvellous. His eyes were bleared, his face white, the wavy hair fell in disorder over his forehead. But he was awake and conscious. "Thank you, Prince," he said, in his clear and sweet voice, "just what I wanted. Hullo, Dicker! You here?--I'll just have my soup. . . ." He grasped the large ladle-spoon with curious eagerness. It was as though he found salvation in the hot liquid--pungent as it was with cognac and burning spices. He lapped it eagerly, coughing now and again, "gluck-gluck" and then a groan of satisfaction. The other two watched him with quiet eagerness. There was nothing horrible to them in this. Neither the valet nor the boy understood that they were "lacqueys in the house of shame." As they saw their muddy magic beginning to succeed, satisfaction swelled within them. Gilbert Lothian's mind was coming back. They were blind to the hideous necessity of their summons, untouched by disgust at the physical processes involved. "Will you require me any more, sir?" "No, thank you, Prince." "Very good, sir. I have made the morning arrangements." "Good-night, Prince." The bedroom door closed. Lothian heaved himself out of his chair. He seemed fifteen years older. His head was sunk forward upon his shoulders, his stomach seemed to protrude, his face was pale, blotchy, debauched, and appeared to be much larger than it ordinarily did. With a slow movement, as if every joint in his body creaked and gave him pain, he began to pace slowly up and down the room. Dickson Ingworth sat on the bed and watched him. Yet as the man moved slowly up and down the room, collecting the threads of his poisoned consciousness, slowly recapturing his mind, there was something big about him. Each heavy, semi-drunken movement had force and personality. The lowering, considering face spelt power, even now. He stopped in front of the bed. "Well, Dicker?" he said--and suddenly his whole face was transformed. Ten years fell away. The smile was sweet and simple, there was a freakish humour in the eyes,--"Well, Dicker?" The boy gave a great gasp of pleasure and relief. The "gude-man" had come home, the powerful mind-machine had started once more, the house was itself again! "How are you, Gilbert?"