Ford guessed that the speaker was Pearsall, and that against his admittance to the house he was making earnest protest. A door, closing with a bang, shut off the argument, but within a few minutes it was evident the Jew had carried his point, for he reappeared to announce that dinner was waiting. It was served in a room at the farther end of the hall, and at the table, which was laid for three, Ford found a man already seated. Prothero introduced him as “my associate,” but from his presence in the house, and from the fact that he was an American, Ford knew that he was Pearsall. Pearsall was a man of fifty. He was tall, spare, with closely shaven face and gray hair, worn rather long. He spoke with the accent of a Southerner, and although to Ford he was studiously polite, he was obviously greatly ill at ease. He had the abrupt, inattentive manners, the trembling fingers and quivering lips, of one who had long been a slave to the drug habit, and who now, with difficulty, was holding himself in hand. Throughout the dinner, speaking to him as though, interested only as his medical advisers, the Jew, and occasionally the American, sharply examined and cross-examined their visitor. But they were unable to trip him in his story, or to suggest that he was not just what he claimed to be. When the dinner was finished, the three men, for different reasons, were each more at his ease. Both Pearsall and Prothero believed from the new patient they had nothing to fear, and Ford was congratulating himself that his presence at the house was firmly secure. “I think,” said Pearsall, “we should warn Mr. Grant that there are in the house other patients who, like himself, are suffering from nervous disorders. At times some silly neurotic woman becomes hysterical, and may make an outcry or scream. He must not think ----” “That's all right!” Ford reassured him cheerfully. “I expect that. In a sanatorium it must be unavoidable.” As he spoke, as though by a signal prearranged, there came from the upper portion of the house a scream, long, insistent. It was the voice of a woman, raised in appeal, in protest, shaken with fear. Without for an instant regarding it, the two men fastened their eyes upon the visitor. The hand of the Jew dropped quickly from his beard, and slid to the inside pocket of his coat. With eyes apparently unseeing, Ford noted the movement. “He carries a gun,” was his mental comment, “and he seems perfectly willing to use it.” Aloud, he said: “That, I suppose is one of them?” Prothero nodded gravely, and turned to Pearsall. “Will you attend her?” he asked. As Pearsall rose and left the room, Prothero rose also. “You will come with me,” he directed, “and I will see you settle in your apartment. Your bag has arrived and is already there.”