The door had been noiselessly opened. The doctor appeared and advanced to the table with a grave little bow. “Mr. Fentolin,” he said, “has been kind enough to suggest that I take a glass of wine with you. My presence is not needed up-stairs. Mr. Hamel,” he added, “I am glad, sir, to make your acquaintance. I have for a long time been a great admirer of your father’s work.” He took his place at the head of the table and, filling his glass, bowed towards Hamel. Once more Gerald and his sister relapsed almost automatically into an indifferent and cultivated silence. Hamel found civility towards the newcomer difficult. Unconsciously his attitude became that of the other two. He resented the intrusion. He found himself regarding the advent of Doctor Sarson as possessing some secondary significance. It was almost as though Mr. Fentolin preferred not to leave him alone with his niece and nephew. Nevertheless, his voice, when he spoke, was clear and firm. CHAPTER XIV Mr. Fentolin, on leaving the dining-room, steered his chair with great precision through the open, wrought-iron doors of a small lift at the further end of the hall, which Doctor Sarson, who stepped in with him, promptly directed to the second floor. Here they made their way to the room in which Mr. Dunster was lying. Doctor Sarson opened the door and looked in. Almost immediately he stood at one side, out of sight of Mr. Dunster, and nodded to Mr. Fentolin. “If there is any trouble,” he whispered, “send for me. I am better away, for the present. My presence only excites him.” Mr. Fentolin nodded. “You are right,” he said. “Go down into the dining-room. I am not sure about that fellow Hamel, and Gerald is in a queer temper. Stay with them. See that they are not alone.” The doctor silently withdrew, and Mr. Fentolin promptly glided past him into the room. Mr. John P. Dunster, in his night clothes, was sitting on the side of the bed. Standing within a few feet of him, watching him all the time with the subtle intentness of a cat watching a mouse, stood Meekins. Mr. Dunster’s head was still bound, although the bandage had slipped a little, apparently in some struggle. His face was chalklike, and he was breathing quickly. “So you’ve come at last!” he exclaimed, a little truculently. “Are you Mr. Fentolin?” Mr. Fentolin gravely admitted his identity. His eyes rested upon his guest with an air of tender interest. His face was almost beautiful. “You are the owner of this house--I am underneath your roof--is that so?” “This is certainly St. David’s Hall,” Mr. Fentolin replied. “It really appears as though your conclusions were correct.” “Then will you tell me why I am kept a prisoner here?” Mr. Fentolin’s expression was for a moment clouded. He seemed hurt.