The man at his bedside did not answer. He was holding in one hand a tray on which was a glass; in the other was a bottle, out of which he was pouring something into the glass. He repeated in another form his first inquiry: "Will that be enough apollinaris, Sir Jocelyn?" "I'm not Sir Jocelyn, if you're talking to me. What's in that glass?" "A good pick-me-up. I think you will find it just about right, Sir Jocelyn." Sydney took the glass which the man advanced. Whatever its contents, they were pleasant to swallow. "That's good, uncommon good. My word!" He had another drink. "I haven't tasted anything as good as that since"--he hesitated--"since I don't know when." "I thought you'd find it refreshing, Sir Jocelyn?" "Why do you call me Sir Jocelyn? Who are you? Where am I? How did I come to be here?" The question was again ignored. "Her ladyship wished me to say that if you felt equal to it, Sir Jocelyn, she would be glad if you would join her at breakfast." "Her ladyship! Who's her ladyship? Didn't you hear me ask you where I am?" Perhaps it was because the man was busy with certain articles of the gentleman's wardrobe that he did not hear what was said. "I thought you might like to wear this suit to-day." He was placing three garments over the back of a chair, which Sydney felt, hazily, were certainly not his. "Everything is quite ready, Sir Jocelyn." Why did the fellow persist in calling him by a name which was not his? What had happened to him? What did it all mean? What was the matter with his head that he felt so incapable of collecting his thoughts? He had never felt so stupid before. Before he clearly understood what was occurring, the bed-clothes were being removed from the bed, and he was being assisted on to the floor as if he were a child or a sick man; indeed, as his feet touched the ground he felt as if, literally, he was a sick man. The room swam round him; his legs refused him support; had not the other had his arm half round him he would have collapsed on to the carpet. "What," he asked, with a sudden thickness of voice, "what is the matter?" Had he been clearly conscious of anything he could scarcely have helped but notice the keen scrutiny with which his attendant was observing him. His manner almost suggested a medical man; it was so suave, yet he treated Sydney as if he were an irresponsible patient. "You've not been quite well, Sir Jocelyn. You've had rather a bad night. I think you'd better have another pick-me-up."