Then Douglas knew that his assailant, if not a lunatic, was surely verging upon madness.  He looked towards the door—­the distance was too far.  No answer occurred to him which seemed discreet, so he remained silent.

“As to her state of health, Douglas Guest.  She has been ill.”

“I know nothing save that she is better.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“You were with her when she was taken ill?”

“I was,” Douglas answered.

“You know the circumstances?”

“I know,” Douglas said, “that she was the victim of a cowardly and infamous attempt at assassination.”

There came a mocking little laugh.  Douglas never turned his head, but he felt instinctively that his life was in danger—­that a finger was laid upon the trigger of that revolver.

“You are a brave man, Douglas Guest.”

“Braver at least,” Douglas answered, “than the man who shoots at women and runs away.”

There was the sound of a scornful laugh, a step upon the floor.  His unbidden guest was coming from out of the shadows.

“You need fear no longer.  I am known to you, I see.  I have put my revolver away.  You and I will talk for a while.”

Douglas turned round with a little breath of relief.  Yes, it was the man whom he had expected to see, pale as death, with sunken eyes encircled with deep, black lines, one little spot of colour flaring on his cheeks, shabbily dressed, yet carrying in his personality still the traces of refinement.  He dropped into the one easy chair, and Douglas watched him half fascinated.

“You have become” he continued, leaning his head upon his bony fingers, “a man of letters, I believe.  I congratulate you.  You have stepped into the whirlpool from which no man can retrace his steps.  Yet even this is better, is it not, than the Methodism?  You were not cut out, I think, for a parson.”

“Never mind me and my affairs,” Douglas said hoarsely.  “I want to have nothing to do with you.  I wish you no harm—­only I beg that you will leave this room, and that I may never see you again.”

The newcomer did not move.

“That is all very well, Mr. Guest,” he said, “but I fancy that last time we met it was as fellow-criminals, eh?”

“We were both trying to rob your father,” Douglas answered slowly, “but there was a difference.  The money I wanted, and took was mine—­ay, and more besides.  He had no right to withhold it.  As for you—­”

“Well, he was my father, and of his own will he had never given me a halfpenny in my life.  Surely I had a right to something?”

“Let the robbery go,” Douglas said, leaning across the table.  “It’s true that I took but my own—­but no more of that.  At least I never raised my hand against him.”

The man in the chair beat with the tips of his fingers upon the table by his side.  He spoke in a dull, unemotional tone.