In a few moments Stratton opened his eyes again, and his first look was directed round the room. "It's all right, old chap," said Guest. "Temper's gone. Come, be sensible. I won't say disagreeable things to you. Give up the keys. You'd be better for a drop of brandy." "No," said Stratton hastily. "Go and leave me now." "Impossible. You must have the doctor." "I cannot; I will not." "But you must." "Do you hear what I say?" cried Stratton fiercely. "Yes. There is no occasion to fly out at me for wanting to be of service." "I want no help. I must be alone." "To go wandering off into a fit of delirium. There, I'll call old mother Brade to fetch a surgeon." "You will not do so. I forbid it." "Exactly, but you are a patient now. There, don't be idiotic. I can read you like a book." Stratton looked up at him sharply. "You don't want the doctor to see your wound and know how it came-- there, don't stare in that wild way--leave it to me. It was an accident. You were fooling about with a revolver. Cleaning it, say; and it went off. That's all the doctor need know." "No one must know even that." "But your wound must be properly dressed." "I will not have it touched," cried Stratton decisively. "Now, once more. I am not much hurt. Go." Guest laughed bitterly. "No, my boy, you don't get rid of me. I'll stick to you like your conscience." Stratton's eyes dilated. "And I'm going to be master here till you are well bodily and mentally." "I tell you I am not much hurt. Mentally! Pooh, I'm as well as you are." "Better, of course. Why, what nonsense you are talking!" cried Guest, pointing to the other's wounded shoulder. "Come, don't let us argue more. Give in sensibly, there's a good fellow, and let me do my best for you. I know you see things in a wrong light now, but you'll thank me some day." They watched each other furtively, and Guest could see how hard his friend was evidently planning to get rid of him, while, on his own part, he was calculating his chances. He knew that mad people were superhumanly strong, but then in spite of his conduct he could not in his own mind grant that Stratton was mad. It was a case of what coroners call "temporary insanity," due to some trouble which had been kept hidden; and if there should be a struggle, Guest felt that he would be more than a match for his friend, injured as he was. Stratton was the first to speak, in a low voice, which suggested his being faint and in great pain. "Now I'm better. Will you go and leave me?" Guest took a chair, and placing its back opposite to his friend, strode across it, and rested his arms on the rail. "Look here, Stratton, old fellow; I've always trusted you, and you've always trusted me." "Yes, of course," said Stratton hurriedly.