“Good idea,” agreed Dr. Dick.  “But Ronnie need not come down on his wife for his hotel expenses!  He is making a pot of money himself, now.  You will be careful to report to Mrs. West exactly what I have said of his condition?”

“I will write immediately.  As we stay a night en route, and another is taken up in crossing, my cousin should receive my letter twenty-four hours before our arrival.”

“Impress upon her,” said Dr. Dick, earnestly, “how dangerous any mental shock might be.”

“Do you fear brain fever?” questioned Aubrey.

Dick laughed.  “Brain fever is a popular fiction,” he said.  “It is not a term admitted by the faculty.  If you mean meningitis—­no, I trust not.  But probably temporary loss of memory, and a complete upsetting of mental control; with a possible impairing, for a considerable time, of his brilliant mental powers.”

“In other words, my cousin’s husband is threatened with insanity.”

“Lor, no!” exclaimed Dick, with vehemence.  “How easily you good people hand a fellow-creature over to that darkest of all fates!  Ronnie’s condition is brought about by temporary circumstances which are not in the least likely to have permanent results.  He has always had the eccentricity of genius; but, since his genius has been recognised, people have ceased to consider him eccentric.  Now I must be off.  But I will see him first.  Will you show me his room?” “He is asleep,” objected Aubrey.  “Is it not a pity to disturb him?”

“I doubt his being asleep,” replied Dick.  “But if he is, we shall not wake him.”

He stepped into the passage, his attitude one of uncompromising determination.

Aubrey Treherne opened the door of Ronnie’s room.  It was in darkness.  He stepped back into the passage, lighted a candle, handed it to Dick Cameron, and they entered quietly together.

Ronnie lay on his back, sleeping heavily.  His eyes were partly open, his face flushed, his breathing rapid.  One arm was flung out toward a chair beside the bed, on which lay his pocket-book, his watch, and a small leather miniature-case containing a portrait of Helen.  This lay open upon the watch, having evidently fallen from his fingers.  A candle had burned down into the socket, and spluttered itself out.

Dick picked up the miniature, held it close to the light of his own candle, and examined it critically.

“He certainly went in for beauty,” he remarked in a low voice to Aubrey Treherne, as he laid the miniature beside the pocket-book.  “Of course Ronnie would.  But it is also a noble face—­a face one could altogether trust.  Ronnie will be in safe hands when once you get him home.”

Aubrey’s smile, in the flare of the candle, was the grin of a hungry wolf.  He made no reply.

Dr. Dick, watch in hand, stood silently beside the bed, counting the rapid respiration of his friend.  Then he turned, took up an empty tumbler from the table behind him, smelt it, and looked at Aubrey Treherne.