e bed appeared soaked in blood."

The doctor walked to the bed and examined it closely, turning back the
bedclothes.

"There is not a spot of blood on it," he remarked savagely, "you are
dreaming."

But my eyes were sharper than his.

"Look here," I said, and pointed to a small red mark on the wall on the
farther side of the bed, "what do you call that?" He leaned over the
bed and looked at the little stain through his glasses as I held the
light.

"Yes," he said after a close scrutiny, "that _might_ be blood, and,
strange to say, it seems wet."

He looked at his finger which had just touched it, and it had a slight
smear of blood on it.

I had told him on the staircase that I had been attacked by a man who
had fired at me, and indeed the smell of powder even on the landing
above was very apparent.

"Now come back into the next room," I said, "and see the body of the
man who assailed me and whom I knocked down."

He followed me into the boudoir, and I went straight to the corner
where I had last seen Saumarez lying.

_There was nothing there!_

I gave a great gasp of astonishment.

"I left the man lying there!" I exclaimed, pointing to the floor.

The doctor took the candle lamp from my hands and held it close to my
face, scrutinising me earnestly meanwhile through his glasses; then he
leant forward and sniffed suspiciously.

"Do you drink?" he asked abruptly.

Then, noticing my look of growing indignation, he altered his tone
slightly.

"Excuse my asking the question," he explained. "But it is the only way
in which I can account for your symptoms. Do you see things?"

"Things be d----," I replied hotly. "I would answer with my life that
I left that poor old lady lying on her bed grievously wounded not half
an hour ago, and the villain who assaulted me insensible in this
corner!"

The doctor went to the corner and held the candle in such a way as to
shed its light upon the floor.

Then he stooped and picked up something.

"What's this?" he exclaimed, holding it close to the candle. "A glass
eye," he continued in astonishment, "a glass eye, as I live!"

"There!" I said triumphantly, "the man who fired at me had a glass eye.
Is it not a brown one, shot with blood?"

"Right!" he answered after another glance at it, "a bloodshot brown eye
it undoubtedly is."

He handed it to me, and I put it in my pocket.

"You had better take care of it," he said. "But I really don't know
what to say