The youthful house surgeon who had accompanied the ambulance made a brief examination of the prostrate figure and was obviously puzzled. “Was this man subject to fits?” he asked. “I am not aware that he was. He has been quite well since he has been in my employ,” said Lady Moron. Lois, who had been attracted to the room, was looking down fearfully at the still figure. “There is no wound of any kind that I can see,” said the doctor, peering through his spectacles. “I will have the attendants in and we’ll rush him to the hospital.” He went back to the hall and signalled for his assistants, and a stretcher, withdrawn from the ambulance, was brought into the library. And then, as they were about to lift the man on to the canvas, there came the sound of running footsteps in the hall and a man burst violently into the room. He was hot and hatless and stood breathing heavily in the doorway, looking from one to another. Presently his gaze fell upon Lois. “Thank God!” he said shakily. Then, with two strides, he was by the side of the prostrate figure. “Are you a doctor?” began Lady Moron. “My name is Michael Dorn--a name probably unknown to your ladyship,” said Dorn brusquely. His keen eyes searched the room. Rising, he lifted a china bowl filled with roses, swept the flowers on to the floor, and dashed the water into the man’s face. Ripping off the collar of the man he knelt over Braime’s head and drew up the stiff arms, pressing them back again to the body. Lois watched him in bewilderment. He was applying the restorative methods which are used for people who are partially drowned. “Are you a doctor?” asked the young surgeon, a little irritably. “No,” said Michael, without ceasing his work. “May I ask what you think you’re doing with this man?” “Saving his life,” was the brief reply. Lady Moron turned at that moment. She had heard the voice of her son in the hall, and, sweeping out of the room, she intercepted him. “What do you want, Selwyn?” she asked coldly. “Something’s happened in the library. They say old Braime’s got a fit or something--thought I might be useful.” “Go back to your study, please, Selwyn,” said her ladyship. “I will not have you excited over these matters.” “But dash it all----” began his lordship, but the look in his mother’s eyes silenced him, and he grumbled his way back to his den. The countess waited until he was out of sight, and then came back to the little party that was watching Michael Dorn and his seemingly futile efforts. A few minutes passed, and then: “I really think this man should be taken to the hospital, Mr.--er--Dorn.” Lady Moron’s visitor had by now joined the group. Chesney Praye had witnessed the arrival of the detective and had thought it wise not to offer his advice. But now, morally strengthened by the presence of the countess, he added his voice to the argument. “You’re probably killing that man, Dorn. Let him go to the hospital, where he’ll be properly attended to.”