“Brought over here? What do you mean? Who the deuce _are_ you?” said Aymer, for the first time growing suspicious, and standing up by dint of effort. “Do sit still, sir, and keep calm, or you’ll have another fit. My name’s Davidson; I’m a warder; and I’ll take good care of you, sir, if you’ll only keep quiet.” The truth flashed into Aymer’s mind in an instant. “Do you mean to say I am in the madhouse?” he asked, quietly. “Well, no, sir, not quite so bad as that. This is an asylum, sir.” “How did I get here?” “You were carried over in your fit.” “And where’s Miss Waldron? Tell her to come to me at once.” “There’s no Miss Waldron, sir; your head is not quite clear yet.” “What! you don’t mean to say that _you_ believe me mad?” “Well, your papers is all right, sir.” Aymer lost his temper, as well he might. “Mr Theodore must be mad,” he said. “Tell him to come at once; no, I’ll go to him.” With an effort he reached the door; but Davidson easily kept him back with one hand, in his weak state. “Now do keep quiet, sir—do sit down.” “I tell you I’m the secretary,” said Aymer, his breath coming fast and thick, for he began to feel that he was trapped. “Ay, ay, sir; they all say that, or something like it. You see, we likes to get people to come quiet, without any noise. One gent came here thinking it was his family mansion, and he was a duke. If you’ll sit down, sir, I’ll get you anything you want.” Poor Aymer was obliged to totter to his chair. “And where’s Violet—where’s Miss Waldron?” he said. “There isn’t no such person, sir. ’Tis your head; you’ll be better presently. I’ll look in again by-and-by.”