Dr. O’Grady took it up and opened it. It contained a ten pound Bank of England note. His slight irritation passed away at once. Never before in the course of his career as a doctor had he received so large a fee. Then a sharp suspicion crossed his mind. A fee of such extravagant amount must be meant to purchase something else besides his medical skill. Men, even if they are as rich as Mr. Red appeared to be, even if they have the eyes of a mad gander and an eccentric taste in house decoration, do not pay ten pounds to a country doctor for dressing a wound. Dr. O’Grady began to wonder whether he might not be called upon to deal with the victim of some kind of foul play, whether he were being paid to keep his mouth shut. “Follow me,” said Mr. Red. Dr. O’Grady followed him out of the dining-room and up two flights of stairs. He made up his mind that his silence, supposing silence to be possible, was worth more than ten pounds. He determined to keep Mr. Red’s secret if it did not turn out to be a very gruesome one, but to make Mr. Red pay handsomely. One hundred pounds was the amount he fixed on. That sum, divided between Mr. Lorraine Vavasour and Jimmy O’Loughlin, would pacify them both for a time. Mr. Red stopped outside a bedroom door, and Dr. O’Grady saw on it four large white letters, A.M.B.A. Mr. Red opened the door. On a bed at the far end of the room lay the servant who used to drive into Clonmore and buy things at Jimmy O’Loughlin’s shop. He was lying face downwards and groaning. “Exert your skill as a physician,” said Mr. Red, waving his hand in the direction of the bed. “Don’t you be a damneder ass than you can help,” said Dr. O’Grady cheerfully. He crossed the room and examined the man on the bed. “Look here,” he said, turning to Mr. Red, “you told me that this man was suffering from the result of an accident he had had with a gun. Well, he isn’t. I defy any man to scorch the skin off the backs of both his own legs with a gun. The thing simply couldn’t be done.” “Exert your skill as a physician, and be silent,” said Mr. Red. “You may fancy yourself to be the Cham of Tartary,” said Dr. O’Grady, “or Augustus Cæsar, or Napoleon Bonaparte, or a Field Marshal in the army of the Emperor of Abyssinia, but you’ve got to give some account of how that man flayed the backs of his legs or else I’ll have the police in here to-morrow.” Mr. Red smiled, waved his hand loftily, and left the room. Dr. O’Grady, his professional instinct aroused, proceeded to dress the man’s wounds. They were not dangerous, but they were extremely painful, and at first the doctor asked no questions. At length his curiosity became too strong for him. “How did you get yourself into such a devil of a state?” he asked. The man groaned. “It looks to me,” said Dr. O’Grady, “as if you’d sat down in a bath of paraffin oil and then struck a match on the seat of your breeches. Was that how it happened?” The man groaned again.