looked at Paul and hesitated. Paul's destiny, though
none knew it, hung in the balance. "I disapprove altogether of the
cottage hospital," she said.

"Eh?" said the doctor.

The Archdeacon raised his eyebrows. "My dear Ursula, I thought you had
made the Morebury Cottage Hospital the model of its kind."

"Its kind is not for people who carry about Sir Thomas Browne in their
pocket," retorted the disingenuous lady. "If I turned him out of my
house, doctor, and anything happened to him, I should have to reckon
with his people. He stays here. You'll kindly arrange for nurses. The
red room, Wilkins,--no, the green--the one with the small oak bed. You
can't nurse people properly in four-posters. It has a south-east
aspect"--she turned to the doctor--"and so gets the sun most of the
day. That's quite right, isn't it?"

"Ideal. But I warn you, Miss Winwood, you may be letting yourself in
for a perfectly avoidable lot of trouble."

"I like trouble," said Miss Winwood.

"You're certainly looking for it," replied the doctor glancing at Paul
and stuffing his stethoscope into his pocket. "And in this case, I can
promise you worry beyond dreams of anxiety."

The word of Ursula Winwood was law for miles around. Dr. Fuller, rosy,
fat and fifty, obeyed, like everyone else; but during the process of
law-making he had often, before now, played the part of an urbane and
gently satirical leader of the opposition.

She flashed round on him, with a foolish pain through her heart that
caused her to catch her breath. "Is he as bad as that?" she asked
quickly.

"As bad as that," said the doctor, with grave significance. "How he
managed to get here is a mystery!" Within a quarter-of-an-hour the
unconscious Paul, clad in a suit of Colonel Winwood's silk pyjamas, lay
in a fragrant room, hung with green and furnished in old, black oak.
Never once, in all his life, had Paul Kegworthy lain in such a room.
And for him a great house was in commotion. Messages went forth for
nurses and medicines and the paraphernalia of a luxurious sick-chamber,
and-the lady of the house being absurdly anxious--for a great London
specialist, whose fee, in Dr. Fuller's quiet eyes, would be amusingly
fantastic.

"It seems horrible to search the poor boy's pockets," said Miss
Winwood, when, after these excursions and alarms the Archdeacon and
herself had returned to the library; "but we must try to find out who
he is and communicate with his people. Savelli. I'