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Beside the chair hopped a peppery little man with white hair and eye-glasses from which hung a wide black string.

“It makes no difference who he is,” declared the peppery little man, fixing the glasses more firmly upon his nose and speaking to the occupant of the chair. “The facts remain as I have said. But, Mr. Alva, there seems to be very little use in advising you. In spite of all I can say you’ll keep indoors. Suppose it is dark? The darkness can’t hurt you. Suppose it is damp? You can protect yourself against that. Air is what you want—fresh air—billions of gallons of it.”

The man in the chair was wasted and pale; his almost fleshless hands lay upon the chair arms; his limbs seemed shrunken to the bone.

Bat Scanlon looked at Ashton-Kirk and nodded.

“Whatever it is that’s got him has got him for good,” spoke he, in a low tone. “I never saw any man’s body so close to death without being dead.”

The eyes of Ashton-Kirk were fixed upon the sick man with singular interest.

“And yet,” said he, in the same low-pitched way, “his head is very much alive. It probably would not be too much to say that it is the most vital thing in the room.”