“Smith!” I cried (my voice seemed to pitch itself, unwilled, in a very high key), “Smith, old man!”

He made no reply, and a sudden, sorrowful fear clutched at my heart-strings.  He was lying half out of bed flat upon his back, his head at a dreadful angle with his body.  As I bent over him and seized him by the shoulders, I could see the whites of his eyes.  His arms hung limply, and his fingers touched the carpet.

“My God!” I whispered—­“what has happened?”

I heaved him back onto the pillow, and looked anxiously into his face.  Habitually gaunt, the flesh so refined away by the consuming nervous energy of the man as to reveal the cheekbones in sharp prominence, he now looked truly ghastly.  His skin was so sunbaked as to have changed constitutionally; nothing could ever eradicate that tan.  But to-night a fearful grayness was mingled with the brown, his lips were purple . . . and there were marks of strangulation upon the lean throat—­ever darkening weals made by clutching fingers.

He began to breathe stentoriously and convulsively, inhalation being accompanied by a significant gurgling in the throat.  But now my calm was restored in face of a situation which called for professional attention.

I aided my friend’s labored respirations by the usual means, setting to work vigorously; so that presently he began to clutch at his inflamed throat which that murderous pressure had threatened to close.

I could hear sounds of movement about the house, showing that not I alone had been awakened by those hoarse screams.

“It’s all right, old man,” I said, bending over him; “brace up!”

He opened his eyes—­they looked bleared and bloodshot—­and gave me a quick glance of recognition.

“It’s all right, Smith!” I said—­“no! don’t sit up; lie there for a moment.”

I ran across to the dressing-table, whereon I perceived his flask to lie, and mixed him a weak stimulant with which I returned to the bed.

As I bent over him again, my housekeeper appeared in the doorway, pale and wide-eyed.

“There is no occasion for alarm,” I said over my shoulder; “Mr. Smith’s nerves are overwrought and he was awakened by some disturbing dream.  You can return to bed, Mrs. Newsome.”

Nayland Smith seemed to experience much difficulty in swallowing the contents of the tumbler which I held to his lips; and, from the way in which he fingered the swollen glands, I could see that his throat, which I had vigorously massaged, was occasioning him great pain.  But the danger was past, and already that glassy look was disappearing from his eyes, nor did they protrude so unnaturally.

“God, Petrie!” he whispered, “that was a near shave!  I haven’t the strength of a kitten!”

“The weakness will pass off,” I replied; “there will be no collapse, now.  A little more fresh air . . .”

I stood up, glancing at the windows, then back at Smith, who forced a wry smile in answer to my look.