"Stand back!" he cried, hoarsely. "Who is it? What do you want?"

"It's Lester," I said, and Godfrey flashed his torch into my face,
then back to Swain's.

"But you're not alone."

"No; this is Mr. Godfrey."

"Mr. Godfrey?"

"Whose house we're staying at," I explained.

"Ah!" said Swain, and put one hand to his head and leaned heavily
against the ladder.

"I think we'd better go to the house," Godfrey suggested, soothingly.
"We all need a bracer. Then we can talk. Don't you think so, Mr.
Swain?"

Swain nodded vacantly, but I could see that he had not understood.
His face was still working and he seemed to be in pain.

"I want to wash," he said, thickly. "I cut my wrist on that damned
glass, and I'm blood all over, and my head's wrong, somehow." His
voice trailed off into an unintelligible mumble, but he held one hand
up into the circle of light, and I saw that his cuff was soaked with
blood and his hand streaked with it.