“Don’t you bother about that, my boy.  You’re a case—­that’s what you are.”

Frank attempted a smile out of politeness.

“Now, how about some more beef-tea, and then going to sleep again?”

Frank assented.

* * * * *

It was not until the Thursday morning that things began to run really clear again in Frank’s mind.  He felt for his rosary under his pillow and it wasn’t there.  Then he thumped on the floor with a short stick which had been placed by him, remembering that in some previous existence he had been told to do this.

A small, lean man appeared at the door, it seemed, with the quickness of thought.

“My rosary, please,” said Frank.  “It’s a string of beads.  I expect it’s in my trouser-pocket.”

The man looked at him with extraordinary earnestness and vanished.

Then the doctor appeared holding the rosary.

“Is this what you want?” he asked.

“That’s it!  Thanks very much.”

“You’re a Catholic?” went on the other, giving it him.

“Yes.”

The doctor sat down again.

“I thought so,” he said.

Frank wondered why.  Then a thought crossed his mind.

“Have I been talking?” he said.  “I suppose I was delirious?”

The doctor made no answer for a moment; he was looking at him fixedly. 
Then he roused himself.

“Well, yes, you have,” he said.

Frank felt rather uncomfortable.

“Hope I haven’t said anything I shouldn’t.”

The old man laughed shortly and grimly.

“Oh, no,” he said.  “Far from it.  At least, your friends wouldn’t think so.”

“What was it about?”

“We’ll talk about that later, if you like,” said the doctor.  “Now I want you to get up a bit after you’ve had some food.”

* * * * *

It was with a very strange sensation that Frank found himself out in the garden next day, in a sheltered corner, seated in a wicker chair in which, by the help of bamboo poles, he had been carried downstairs by Thomas and the Major, with the doctor leading the way and giving directions as to how to turn the corners.  The chair was brought out through an irregularly-shaped little court at the back of the house and set down in the warm autumn noon, against an old wall, with a big kitchen garden, terribly neglected, spread before him.  The smoke of burning went up in the middle distance, denoting the heap of weeds pulled by the Major and Gertie during the last three days.  He saw Gertie in the distance once or twice, in a clean sun-bonnet, going about her business, but she made no sign.  The smell of the burning weeds gave a pleasant, wholesome and acrid taste to his mouth.

“Now then,” said the doctor, “we can have our little talk.”  And he sat down beside him on another chair.

* * * * *