steady for a few minutes. . . . Right! . . . Now the
question is, where to bestow him? I can't answer for him when the
dose wears off: but it's no case to leave with two ladies."

"There's a taxi, doctor," said I, "if we can get him into it. I have
a flat in Jermyn Street, and a trustworthy manservant. I suggest
that he'll do there for the night."

"Right," said Dr. Tredgold again; "and the sooner the better.
I'll come with you, when I've bound up this wound on his hand.
It's a nasty one. . . . It looks to me--Yes, and it is, too!"

"What is it?" I asked.

"A dog-bite."

"So _that_ was what he killed!" thought I, and aloud I said, "Thank
God!"

"Eh?" said the doctor. "A dog-bite's a queer thing to thank God
for."

"It might have been worse," I answered.

"H'm: well it's bad enough," Dr. Tredgold replied, busy with his
bandaging.

NIGHT THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

THE PAYING OF THE SCORE.

Next evening, my leave being up, I returned to Aldershot.
Dr. Tredgold had called around early, and after overhauling his
patient and dressing the hand, had assured me there was no cause for
anxiety. The fever had gone down, and this allowed us to tackle the
main mischief, which was malnutrition. In short, Jack was starving.

"Your man makes an excellent nurse," said the doctor. "I'll tell him
to go slow at first, with beef-tea and milk, and to-morrow he can
start the works up with a dose of champagne. But I'll drop in
to-morrow, to make sure. The wound?--Oh, it's a dog-bite, safe
enough, and a rather badly lacerated one. But we cauterised it in
time last night, and it shows no 'anger,' as the saying is. Has he
told you how he came by it?"

"No," said I. "He has been lying in this lethargy ever since you
left him. He wakes up and takes his medicine from Jephson, and then
drops back into a doze. I thought it best not to worry him."

"Quite right, too. . . . And I'll not ask questions, either, beyond
putting it that he's a friend of yours, gone under, and you're
playing the Samaritan. . . . Well, you can go back to duty, and
Jephson and I will see this through. It's queer, too. . . . I seem
to have seen his face somewhere. . . . But what's queerer is that he
isn't dead. He must have had some practice at fasting, poor fellow.
I should say that his stomach hadn't known food for a week."

I duly 'phoned the doctor's report to Constantia. To Jephson my last
words were, "Write daily. When Dr. Foe can sit o