“But what is to be done, Excellency?” demanded Paschics, with anxious eagerness. Cyril buried his face in his hands without replying, and sat silent for some time. When he raised his head his face was haggard. “Leave it for a while,” he said. “Mansfield, get out the chessboard, and we will have a game.” The others stared at him in bewilderment, but Mansfield obeyed. It had become rather unusual for them to play, since Cyril invariably won, which deprived the contests of all their interest. This time, however, Mansfield won easily. To his astonishment he saw great drops standing on his employer’s brow when he looked up. “Another!” said Cyril hoarsely. Mansfield set the board afresh, and perceiving from his antagonist’s keen anxiety that he attached some special importance to this particular game, determined to play so carelessly as to make it impossible for him not to win. Perhaps he was in the mood to regard a victory here as a good omen for his success with regard to the larger issues at stake. But Cyril saw the intention, and dashed his fist down on the board. “For heaven’s sake, Mansfield, don’t humour me as if I was a child! I haven’t come to that yet. Play your hardest.” Rearranging the pieces, Mansfield obeyed, and won the game with ludicrous ease, not daring to glance at his opponent’s face. Cyril sat for a moment playing with the pieces, then pushed his chair back and stood up. “I believe my brain’s gone,” he said unsteadily. “I can think of nothing. The game is up, Paschics. It must all go.” “Land’s sake, Count!” cried Mr Hicks, “bluff it out. You’ll be all right in a day or two. Bluff will carry you through yet.” “It may, but I feel pretty certain it won’t. No, Hicks, I’m cornered. Do your best with it, Paschics. Oh, to be for one hour--for ten minutes--the man I was a month ago! But that’s all over now.” “Say, Count, you’re sick yet,” Mr Hicks cried after him as he went out. “You bet you’ll be as spry as ever some time soon. Mr Mansfield,” he added hastily, “if I were you I guess I’d give Dietrich the word to keep an eye on his master, and not leave any shooting-irons lying around.” Mansfield rushed out with frantic haste, and Mr Hicks and the horrified Paschics put their heads together and drew up a document which might help to postpone the need of an explanation for a day or two. Count Mortimer was still suffering from the effects of the dastardly attack made upon him at Jericho, but he left his character and his cause confidently in the hands of Europe, in the full assurance that, until he was able to vindicate them himself, judgment would be suspended. When this had been despatched, there was no more that they could do. If Cyril did not regain his former powers of mind, all, as he had said, was lost.