old man. I'm
all right. I must give you a new thermometer!"

"You shall," said Dick. "After Christmas we'll have a spree together in
town and choose it. No need to tell me you 're all right, Ronnie. It's
writ large on you, my boy. He who runs may read!"

"Well, I wish you'd write it large on other people," said Ronnie, as
they walked out of the station.

"What do you mean?"

"Dick, I'm having a devil of a time! There's a smug chap in a bowler hat
who is supposed to be my valet. When I went to bed last night, I found I
had a decent room enough, opening out of the sitting-room. I was
obviously expected to turn in there, asking no questions; so I turned
in. But the valet person slept in a room communicating with mine. The
latch and the lock of the door between, had been tampered with. The door
wouldn't shut, so I had to sleep all night with that fellow able to look
in upon me at any moment. After I had been in bed a little while, I
remembered something I had left in the sitting-room and wanted. I got up
quietly to fetch it. That door was locked, on the sitting-room side!"

"Poor old boy! We'll soon put all that right. You see you were pretty
bad, while you _were_ bad; and all kinds of precautions were necessary.
We felt sure of a complete recovery, and I always predicted that it
would be sudden. But it is bound to take a little while to get all your
surroundings readjusted. Why not go home at once? Pack up and go back to
Hollymead this afternoon, and have a real jolly Christmas there--you,
and Helen, and the kid."

"The kid?" queried Ronnie, perplexed. "What kid? Oh, you mean my
'cello--the Infant of Prague."

Dick, meanwhile, had bitten his tongue severely.

"Yes, the jolly old Infant of Prague, of course. Is it 'he,' 'she,' or
'it'? I forget."

"It," replied Ronnie, gravely. "In the peace of its presence one forgets
all wearying 'he and she' problems. Yes, I want most awfully to get back
to my 'cello. I want to make sure it is not broken; and I want to make
sure it is no dream, that I can play. But--I don't want to go, unless I
can go alone. Can't you prescribe complete solitude, as being absolutely
essential for me? Dick, I'm wretched! I don't care where I go; but I
want to get away by myself."

"Why, old man?"

"Because my wife still considers me insane."

"Nonsense, Ron! And don't talk of being insane. You were never that.
Some subtle malarial poison, we shall never know what, got into your
blood, affe