"No, not in this room," I admitted. "It was in a house at Chelsea."
The young man exchanged meaning glances with the man-servant.
"At Chelsea!" repeated the stranger. "In London?"
"In London."
"Well, that's very curious," he remarked. Then, turning to the servant,
said--
"Gill, go and fetch Doctor Britten at once. Say nothing of this to any
one in the house."
"Yes, sir," answered the servant, who instantly withdrew.
"I suppose you've sent for the doctor to bandage my head?" I remarked
cynically. "I'm perfectly competent to do that if you'll kindly oblige
me with a little warm water, a sponge, and some clean old linen."
"No, no," he urged. "Wait in patience until Britten comes. He'll be
here in a moment. I saw him returning home only ten minutes ago."
"But how came I here?" I demanded.
He hesitated, regarding me with evident distrust, mingled with
considerable alarm.
"I--I really don't know," he responded lamely.
"That's all nonsense," I cried, with more force than politeness. "I
find myself here, in this room, wounded and weak through loss of blood,
after having been half murdered, and then you have the cool impudence to
deny all knowledge of how I came here. You're a liar--that's plain."