The door shut, the lock turned. Aymer knew that he was a prisoner. For a few minutes he really was mad, frenzied with unusual passion and indignation, to be trapped like an animal lured on by provender, and for what purpose? Ah, for what purpose? Violet—it must be Violet—her claim to the Stirmingham estate. He was trapped that he might not follow up the clue. Where was she? Doubtless spirited away somewhere, or perhaps expecting him at Belthrop, thinking he was coming to her. They would be sure to keep them as far apart as possible. Theodore was Marese Baskette’s cousin, his friend, his confidant; he saw it all—he had been drugged, stupefied, made to utter every species of nonsense, to appear literally mad. He looked round the room; it was to all appearance an ordinary apartment, except that the door was strong, and without panels to weaken it. He staggered to the window, he put it up; there were no bars, no iron rods to prevent him getting out; but he looked down—a drop of twenty feet—into a narrow, stone-paved courtyard. A bitter thought entered his mind: they would rather like him to commit suicide out of that window. Opposite, about ten feet distant, ran an immensely high stone wall, crenelated on the top, and over that he could catch a glimpse of the blue May sky. He understood now why the corridor was evidently uncarpeted; if by any means he should get out at the door, his steps would sound, and give the alarm at once. He sat down and tried to think; either the excitement, or the natural strength of his constitution was fast overcoming the poison. His head was clearer, and he could see distinctly, but his limbs were still feeble. What could he do? At this moment the key again turned in the lock, and Davidson entered, bearing a tray with an appetising dinner. “How do I know these things are not drugged also?” said Aymer. “Drugged, sir? That’s always their delusion. Them’s good victuals. I’ll taste if you like.” And he did so. While his head was turned, Aymer, weak as he was, made a rush at the door. The warder turned and seized him, and led him back to his chair like a child. Aymer, mad with passion, threatened him, and snatched at a knife upon the table. “Ay, ay; steady, sir,” said the warder, quite coolly; “that’s no use, my waistcoat is padded on purpose. I’ve had him padded ever since Mr Odo made a stab at me. Now, now, sir, do be quiet; you’re only a hurting yourself. Eat your dinner and get stronger, and maybe then you can have a wrestle with me.” He glanced with a half smile at Aymer’s slight, panting figure, and then at his own sturdy proportions, winked, and withdrew. As his steps died away in the passage, Aymer started to his feet in intense astonishment. He had heard his own name; he could not believe his senses—was he really mad? “Aymer Malet, Esq.” The voice was low, but distinct. It might come from the doorway, the window, the wall, the ceiling. He was startled, but replied— “Yes; I am here.”