“I’m coming to that in a minute, mister. I didn’t see him again that day; he came back about ten o’clock and went up to his room. The next morning he had his breakfast in my kitchen as usual; he always told me he was poor now, but had seen better days. Said he had been to dine last evening with an old friend of his who had known him in his prosperous times, and had been given the best dinner he had ever had in his life. He didn’t come to tea, and I went upstairs to tell him it was ready; he was a nice, pleasant feller, very free with his money, when he had it, and always grateful for any little kindness or attention. He was sitting huddled up in his chair, and couldn’t speak. I sent for the doctor at once, for I was sure he had some money. We put him to bed, and there he’s been ever since. He’s still unconscious. I and my daughter look after him.” Grewgus pulled out his ever-ready note book. “I should like the address of that doctor, please, in case I want to see him. Your lodger was once a friend of mine, and I’ve only lately learned he is down on his luck. I called to-day to propose something for his benefit; I will come again to-morrow or next day. Many thanks, sorry to have taken up your time; you must be a busy woman.” He slipped a pound note into her hand, and went straight to Lydon’s office in Victoria Street. But he just missed him; Leonard had left to catch an early train to Brighton. He called on him early the next morning, and told him what had happened. The two men looked at each other. There was an inquiry in Leonard’s glance which Grewgus answered at once. “Yes, I surmise what you surmise. The genial, red-faced man was Stormont, and there is no doubt he is at times an active member of his organization. You may depend upon it, he is devilish clever, and this last thing may still remain a matter of conjecture incapable of actual proof.” He paused a moment, then added: “But if this poor devil lives, he is clever enough for the same idea to occur to him. And if it does he will speak out what he knows about Stormont.” CHAPTER SEVENTEEN It was a long time before Newcombe struggled back to convalescence; during that period Grewgus had several interviews with the doctor who was attending him, a young, harassed-looking man who had a large but not particularly remunerative practice in a poor neighbourhood. The detective came to the conclusion at their first meeting that he was not a very brilliant member of his profession. He said there were symptoms of poisoning, certainly, probably ptomaine poisoning. The landlady had said the patient told her he was dining at some restaurant the previous evening. Possibly some cheap one where there was little care exercised in the selection or cooking of food. Undoubtedly he had partaken of some dish which had produced this disastrous result.