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Scanlon looked at the invalid with fresh interest. He saw a dark face, not at all that of a sick man, and a pair of burning, searching black eyes. There seemed to be something unusual about the upper part of the head, but the man was so muffled up, apparently about to be taken out, that the nature of this was not quite clear.

“Drugs,” stated the peppery little man, “are useless; time has no effect. To reach a case of your kind, air must be supplied—clear air—air containing all the elements of life. If I am to make a well man of you where others have failed, you must do as I say.”

“He’s the fresh-air crank I was telling you about a while ago,” Scanlon informed the crime specialist, softly.

“If I must go out,” spoke the invalid in a surprisingly strong voice, “wrap me up well. I feel the cold easily.”

The little doctor began arranging the blankets about the shrunken limbs; and while he was doing so, Ashton-Kirk arose.

“Let me assist you,” said he, with that calm assurance which is seldom denied.