Ascott gazed long at the sleeping figure in utter bewilderment; he was still very tired and his mind was slow to understand, while an atrocious neuralgic headache tortured him. What had happened then, following the moment when he had found himself alone with Nini Guinon in the private room at the restaurant in the Place de la Bastille? He could remember nothing, he had forgotten everything. All the same his conscience told him that the history of subsequent events should not be very difficult to reconstruct. At the same time he was suffering atrociously, his head, his forehead, the nape of his neck were all seats of horrid pain. It felt as though every hair that bristled on his skull was a needle point painfully pricking the scalp. Putting off till later all thought of seriously considering his plight, Ascott, on tip-toe, moving carefully to avoid making the slightest noise, but as a first preliminary having drained at a draught half the contents of a water-jug, crept across the room, resolved to regain his bed and sleep off the last vestiges of his fatigue. But hardly had he taken a couple of steps when he started and swore. A soft knock had sounded on the door. The tired man deemed no reply needful; no one surely would venture to come in without his permission, and that he was not disposed to give. But evidently it was ordained that the unfortunate young man should not be left in peace that morning to sleep off the effects of his last night’s indulgence. In defiance of the established customs of the house, hitherto invariably respected, the door, without leave given, was half opened. A head appeared, a face of consternation, the head and face of his servant John. Ascott, who at the moment was making for the bed, turned sharply round and sitting down on the coverlet, addressed the domestic in angry tones: “What ever has come to you, John what do you want? I haven’t rung, that I know of.” For all that the man pushed into the room and advanced some steps nearer his master. “Forgive me, sir,” he murmured, “I should never have dared to come into your bedroom, sir, without being summoned, but there’s someone wishing to ...” Ascott stifled a yawn, signifying by a peremptory wave of the hand his refusal to hear another word. “You are mad, John; you know perfectly well I never receive visitors at this hour of the day.” “Excuse me, sir, but it seems it is important.” “Nothing is important enough to wake me up for,” declared Ascott. But the servant went on with extraordinary and unprecedented persistency. “It is the old fellow who sometimes comes to see you, sir, the business agent, your lawyer, sir, old M. Moche. I explained you could not see him, sir, but he insisted all the same, he almost forced me to come up here ... please excuse me, sir, but ...” His master was furious. Calling up, not without difficulty, all the will power he possessed, all the energy he was capable of that morning, he vociferated passionately: