So that was what he had--_concussion_ of the brain! Pat wondered how he had got it. One of the impressions filtering back was of hitting a man, and hearing him squeal. What had followed was a blank, like everything since. Maybe some other man had hit him--from behind. The woman moved away, and cautiously Pat opened his eyes. The greyness was still there, but it was more definite, more commonplace, as if belonging to earth and things of everyday life. He thought that he must be lying on his back in a bed, looking straight up at a low grey ceiling. There were grey walls, too, but he could not turn his head to see more, as his neck was stiff and painful. The light was so dim that he imagined it must be drawing toward dusk in a room with small windows partly covered with curtains. More talking went on at a distance, between the man and woman. Sometimes it sounded so far off that Pat wondered if there was an adjoining room with an open door. Presently, when all had been silent for so long that he had almost dozed off, there was a sudden explosion of voices. The listener fancied that there were two new ones, both voices of men, and one he recognized, though irritatingly he could not attach the right name label. He kept his eyes closed, because he was sure that the latecomers would look at him, and his caution was rewarded. Someone turned on a light. The two new voices mumbled in sick-bed whispers across his pillow. He caught a word here and there: again "the pearls," "Markoff," and "the Duchess." The last gave him an odd thrill. _Juliet_! She had been angry. How was she feeling now? Was she seeking for him? Or did she give him credit for running off with the pearls--or Lyda? or--both together? The thought that this might be so--probably was so--made him long to spring up and fight his way to his wife, somehow. And perhaps he could not have resisted attempting to move had not a sudden noise snapped the thread of his thought. A quarrel had broken out over something between the men. All three voices rose sharply. The woman intervened, and was rebuked. Then came a squall of rage, instantly stifled. The woman screamed, and drew in her breath with a gasp. All was still again. "Hark!" whispered someone. The light went out. In place of the greyness, blackness fell. Pat could hear the pounding of his own heart, and another sound almost hidden by the noise in his breast. He thought that stairs were squeaking under a stealthy foot. CHAPTER XVII THE CRYSTAL "Have you an appointment, Madam?" asked the elderly woman who opened the door of Madame Veno's flat for Juliet. She was a person of almost oppressively respectable appearance, with grey hair parted in the middle, gold-rimmed _pince nez_ resting on a thin nose, and a neat body clad in black silk. If Madame Veno needed a chaperon, her door opener was ideal!