"You are extremely complimentary," he answered, colouring slightly.
"Well, perhaps you won't mind telling me the time. I find that that
cunning scoundrel Hickman, not content with trying to poison me with a
prepared cigar and striking me on the head in that cowardly way, has
also robbed me of my watch and chain."
He glanced at his watch.
"It's half-past two," he answered abruptly.
"Half-past two! Then it happened more than twelve hours ago," I
observed.
"I wish Britten would hurry," the young man remarked. "I don't like the
look of that wound. It's such a very nasty place."
"Only a scalp-wound," I said lightly. "Properly bandaged, it will be
all right in a few days. There's fortunately no fracture."
"Well, you're in a pretty mess, at any rate."
"And so would you be," I said, "if you had been entrapped as I've been."
His face seemed bloodless, as though the discovery of my presence there
had caused him the utmost alarm. He fidgeted and glanced eagerly now
and then towards the door.
At last I distinguished advancing footsteps, and there entered an
elderly, dapper, white-bearded little man, whose general demeanour and
buttoned frock-coat gave him the air of the medical practitioner. He
held his silk hat in his hand, and as he placed it down I noticed that
his stethoscope reposed cross-wise in the lining.
"My dear sir! My dear sir! What's this?" he began fussily. "Come, sit
down;" and he drew me towards a chair, and seated himself upon the edge
of another close to me.
"My head has been injured. Examine for yourself."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, first regarding me fixedly, and then rising and
examining my head. "A nasty scalp-wound, I see." He felt it carefully
with his fingers, causing me a sharp twinge of pain. "No fracture, no
fracture. That's fortunate--very fortunate. It's not serious at all,
I'm glad to tell you--nothing serious. How did it occur?"
"I was struck, that's all I remember," I answered, turning to him and
looking into his face.
"With something sharp-pointed, evidently;" and he looked extremely
puzzled.
"I don't know what it was."
"From what I can feel, I think you must have had a previous blow upon
the same spot at some time or another. Do you remember it?"
"Not at all," I answered. "I once received a blow on the head by the
kick of a horse, but it was at the side."
"Ah, perhaps this was a blow in infancy, and you don't recollect it."
Then, as he exchanged a strange look with the young man who stood eager
and anxious at his side, his quick eyes suddenly fell upon the broken
arm of the statue.
"Why, what's this?" he cried, a sudden light apparently dawning upon
him. "Look here, there's blood and hair upon this marble finger.
You've evidently struck your head against it in passing, and so
violently as to break the marble. See!"
I looked, and there, sure enough upon the outstretched index-finger of
the marble hand was a trace of blood, to which two or three hairs still
clung.
"We've solved the mystery!" he cried. "I must dress your wound, and
then, my dear sir, you must rest--rest. It will do your head good, you
know."
"But I was struck down last night by a man named Hickman in his rooms at
Chelsea. He attempted to murder me."
"Yes, yes," he said, as though intentionally humouring me. "We've heard
all about that. But come with me upstairs and let me dress your wound
at once. Gill," he added, turning to the servant, "get me some lukewarm
water at once."
Then he took my arm and led me upstairs to a well-fitted dressing-room,
where he fussily washed and bandaged my head, while I sat silent, dazed,
and wondering.