“I think,” he said, “that I should like to see the last of Mr. Dunster.” “Pray do,” Mr. Fentolin begged. “I have said good-by to him myself, and all that I hope is that next time you offer a wayfarer the hospitality of St. David’s Hall, Gerald, he may be a more tractable person. This morning I shall give myself a treat. I shall eat an old-fashioned English breakfast. Close the door after you, if you please, Gerald.” Hamel, with Gerald by his side, hurried out into the hall. Just as they crossed the threshold they saw Mr. Dunster, wrapped from head to foot in his long ulster, a soft hat upon his head and one of Mr. Fentolin’s cigars in his mouth, step from the bottom stair into the hall and make his way with somewhat uncertain footsteps towards the front door. Doctor Sarson walked on one side, and Meekins held him by the arm. He glanced towards Gerald and his companion and waved the hand which held his cigar. “So long, my young friend!” he exclaimed. “You see, I’ve got them to let me make a start. Next time we go about the country in a saloon car together, I hope we’ll have better luck. Say, but I’m groggy about the knees!” “You’d better save your breath,” Doctor Sarson advised him grimly. “You haven’t any to spare now, and you’ll want more than you have before you get to the end of your journey. Carefully down the steps, mind.” They helped him into the car. Hamel and Gerald stood under the great stone portico, watching. “Well, I’m jiggered!” the boy exclaimed, under his breath. Hamel was watching the proceedings with a puzzled frown. To his surprise, neither Doctor Sarson nor Meekins were accompanying the departing man. “He’s off, right enough,” Hamel declared, as the car glided away. “Do you understand it? I don’t.” Gerald did not speak for several moments. His eyes were still fixed upon the back of the disappearing car. Then he turned towards Hamel. “There isn’t much,” he said softly, “that Mr. Fentolin doesn’t know. If that detective was really on his way here, there wasn’t any chance of keeping Mr. Dunster to himself. You see, the whole story is common property. And yet, there’s something about the affair that bothers me.” “And me,” Hamel admitted, watching the car until it became a speck in the distance. “He was fairly well cornered,” Gerald concluded, as they made their way back to the dining-room, “but it isn’t like him to let go of anything so easily.” “So you’ve seen the last of our guest,” Mr. Fentolin remarked, as Hamel and Gerald re-entered the dining-room. “A queer fellow--almost a new type to me. Dogged and industrious, I should think. He hadn’t the least right to travel, you know, and I think so long as we had taken the trouble to telephone to Norwich, he might have waited to see the physician. Sarson was very angry about it, but what can you do with these fellows who are never ill? They scarcely know what physical disability means. Well, Mr. Hamel, and how are you going to amuse yourself to-day?”