"Imagination!" I cried, starting up angrily. "I tell you, Doctor Britten--or whatever your name is--that it is no imagination. The wound on my head is sufficient proof of that." "The wound was inflicted by yourself," he answered calmly. "You accidentally ran against the statue." "I don't believe it," I said, bluntly. "It's all a confounded conspiracy, and, moreover, you are staking your professional reputation by assisting in it." He shrugged his shoulders and raised his grey eyebrows with an expression of regret. "I have been called to you, my dear sir, because you have met with an accident," he said. "I have merely given you the best of my advice-- namely, to remain quiet, and not trouble about anything that has passed. Your brain requires rest after the severe shock it has received." "Doctor Britten," I said determinedly, "I quite understand the meaning of your vague words. You believe that I'm not quite right in my mind." "No, no," he assured me quickly. "I did not say that. Pray do not misunderstand me. I merely advise rest and perfect quiet. Indeed, you would be far better in bed for a few days--far better." "I know my own feelings best, thanks," I replied, for his manner, although it might impress nervous old ladies, aroused within me a strong resentment. "Exactly. But surely you should, for your own sake, attend to the suggestions of your medical adviser?" "You have formed wrong conclusions--entirely wrong conclusions," I laughed. "Is it likely that I shall take notice of anything you say when you believe that I'm not responsible for my actions?" I had watched his face carefully, and I knew that, like the dark-faced young man and Gill, the servant, he believed my brain unbalanced. "I assure you, my dear sir, you entirely misunderstand me," he protested. "I merely say--" "Oh, enough!" I cried angrily, turning upon my heel and leaving the room abruptly. I was sick of the chattering old idiot, who evidently believed that I was not responsible for my actions. Down the wide oak stairs I passed, and in the great hall, which seemed to run the whole length of the house, and was filled with stands of armour, tattered banners, and trophies of the chase, I encountered the pale-faced man who had sent for old Britten. I was passing him by, intent upon exploring this strange house in which I found myself, when, approaching me, he said-- "Would you please come into the library for one moment?" "The library?" I asked, looking at him, puzzled. "Where is it?" He opened a door close by, and I followed him into a comfortable study, lined with books from floor to ceiling. In the centre was a large writing-table littered with papers, while close beside was another smaller table, very severe and business-like. "Well?" I inquired. "What do you want?" "This telegram has just arrived," he answered excitedly, unlocking a drawer in the smaller writing-table, and taking out a telegram, which he handed to me.