Motioning me to put away my revolver, Holmes moved to the bell pull beside the door. "I trust this communicates with the butler's pantry?"

The old soldier shot him a suspicious glance from beneath his craggy eyebrows. "What are you doing?"

"I wish to summon your servants." The words were spoken soothingly, yet no one could mistake the undertones of command. "You are evidently taxed beyond your strength. He will bring the restoratives of biscuits and brandy." Holmes paused, then added, "I hope that he will also bring answers to my questions."

Warburton sprang up. "Do not touch that bell pull, sir!" he cried, gasping for breath. Had I not caught him as he tottered, he would have fallen again upon the flags.

"This will not do," Holmes chastised him, after I laid him again upon the settee and checked his pulse. "Two faints within twelve hours is not healthy for a man of your age and enfeebled condition, Colonel Warburton. You must not risk a third."

My friend draped the bearskin rug - the only adequate covering we could find in the room - over the old man's shivering body. As he did so, his eyes flicked over him. Then they met mine.

I nodded agreement with his unspoken deduction. What we had mistaken for leanness earlier was emaciation. His pulse was rapid and uneven. His pale skin was clammy. He was literally dying from his fear.

Holmes went again to the bellpull.

"No!" The colonel's scream would have rang throughout the house, had he the power to project it.

"Why not, sir?" I protested. "You need your son, and he longs to be of service to you."

"Then why does he think I am mad? Why did he oppose my will and let you invade my house? I checked all was secure. He alone has the duplicate keys. He must have let you inside."

His chin jerked up. "Why is he not here with you, since he has so traitorously abetted you? If he is too cowardly to show his face, he is unworthy to be called a man, let alone a soldier." All this he said in hoarse croaks, with gasps for breath.

"Captain Warburton is probably pacing the floor of his bedroom," Holmes replied. "You do not want him to know your business. Like a dutiful son, he has respected your wishes; but, like a loving son, he frets for your safety."

Warburton snorted.

Holmes' eyes bored into Warburton's. "Colonel, the Captain is more than one and twenty. You are proud that he has proven himself to be a brave and intelligent soldier. Confide in him."

Warburton vehemently shook his head. Holmes let out a groan of exasperation.

"Why do you blind your poor son's eyes and bind his hands? He is in graver peril than you are, man, because you know the danger but he does not!"

The old man looked stricken. "I cannot let him know." His mouth clenched. "The danger is mine, not his."

Holmes threw up his hands. "Just like the five orange pips and the Klu Klux Klan! That deadly society killed two innocent men, Colonel Warburton, because a third man - brother of one, uncle of the other - thought the danger was his alone. Why are you so obdurate? You need your son, and you need us. You need every ally you can find."

He controlled his voice with an effort, and added in quiet, passionate tones, "Your foes have murdered your dog on your very doorstep. Do you want them to murder your son?"

Warburton had also mastered his emotion. "Either leave me to manage my business as I choose, or use your vaunted detective skills to find out what this 'artefact' is and where it is before Friday. Otherwise, the police will arrest you for housebreaking and assault upon my person, and I will have my son arrested as your accessory."

Holmes gave him a long, hard look. "You do not know what this 'artifact' is?"

"On my honour, sir, I do not know," the colonel replied resolutely; but his gaze shifted slightly away from Holmes' keen, grey eyes.

"Perhaps your late father did. He was "Corinthian Jemmy" Warburton, was he not? A member of the Prince Regent's set?"

"My father's name was 'James', sir," Warburton said guardedly. "Yes, he was known by that name in his youth."

"And 'Prinny' was a noted collector of Indian artifacts, was he not? He was both generous and careless with his treasures. Did your father pick up an unconsidered trifle?"

Warburton bristled. "Do not cast aspersions on my family, sir. My father was an honourable man."

"Then, Colonel Warburton, are you afraid of your son?"

"I am afraid for my son."

"You fear your servants, then. Tut, Tut, sir. Either you truly believe your servants seek to poison you, or feeding your dog the first bites of your meals was a cruel charade to make him think you were in the grip of acute paranoia." He leaned over the prostrate man. "Or, Colonel Warburton, you believe yourself to be helpless in your son's power. Then you were showing the defiance of a captive. Which is it, sir? Who do you fear? Your son, or your servants?"

Go to Part Ten