Mr.John P.Dunster, in his night clothes, was sitting on the side of the bed.

Standing within a few feet of him, watching him all the time with the subtle intentness of a cat watching a mouse, stood Meekins.

Mr.Dunster's head was still bound, although the bandage had slipped a little, apparently in some struggle.

His face was chalklike, and he was breathing quickly.
"So you've come at last!" he exclaimed, a little truculently.

"Are you Mr.Fentolin ?" Mr.Fentolin gravely admitted his identity.