My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third storey: I had followed and stood at his side.

     "Have you a sponge in your room?" he asked in a whisper.

     "Yes, sir."

     "Have you any salts--volatile salts?"

     "Yes."

     "Go back and fetch both."

     I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer, and once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me again.

     "You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"

     "I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet."

     I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no faintness.

     "Just give me your hand," he said: "it will not do to risk a fainting fit."