"Sheila, for God's sake keep calm. It is not what we thought. The man we carried in here is not your father. He is a stranger, wearing your father's clothes. Look for yourself, and you will see where the likeness ends." "Not my father?" she repeated mechanically, and flung herself down beside Grant. A moment's inspection was enough to convince her. She rose from her knees. "Thank God!" she cried, fervently. It had cut her to the heart to think that the father whom she so loved and revered should be brought home in such a condition. She was grateful that none but those three had been present. But to her gratitude succeeded a sudden wave of fear, and her face went paler than before. "But, Austin, there must be some terrible mystery behind this. Why is this man wearing father's clothes? And why--" she broke suddenly into a low wail--"is father not home?" Austin could make no answer; the same thought had occurred to him. "My poor child, there is a mystery, but you must summon all your courage till we can discover more," he murmured soothingly. "Now I must go and 'phone for the doctor. In my opinion, this man is not suffering from excess, as that driver led us to believe. He appears to be in a dying state." When he had gone to ring up the family doctor, who lived close by in Curzon Street, Sheila again knelt down beside the prostrate form. Presently the man's lips began to move and faint sounds issued from them. He seemed trying to utter a name, and stumbling over the first syllable. They strained their ears, and thought they caught the word "Moly" repeated three times. There was silence for a few seconds, and then the muttering grew louder and they thought they heard the name "Molyneux." "Oh, if only he could wake from his sleep or lethargy!" Sheila exclaimed impatiently. "If he could only throw some light upon this awful mystery?" He relapsed into silence again, and then presently recommenced his mutterings. This time, he pronounced the syllables even less clearly than before. And now they fancied the name was more like "Mulliner." Would he come back to consciousness and be able to answer questions, or would those be his last words on earth? They could not tell. His form had relapsed into its previous rigidity and his face had grown more waxen in its hue. What was the explanation of his being dressed in her father's clothes? Sheila was sure they were the same Reginald Monkton had won on setting out that evening. A sudden thought struck her. She inserted her hand gently in his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a gold watch. It was her father's; she had given it to him on his last birthday. She felt in the breast pocket of his coat, but it was empty. That told her little, for she did not know if he had taken any papers with him.