"Brown, John, stableman, run over by a cab. Severe concussion of the
brain."
"Now, sir, what do you make of that?"
"Nothing at all," said Clayton, blankly.
"No more did I, sir. I wasn't looking after John Brown, a stableman;
but Lionel Redgrave, Esq. But that wasn't all. I've seen this case--
I've been to the bedside, and then I didn't think anything of it. I was
so clever."
"But does that relate to him?"
"To be sure it does, sir. I tell you it's easy enough, now one can see
through it; but I couldn't put that and that together before. Name
never struck me a bit, when it ought to have been the very key to it
all. He was knocked down, and run over by a cab, when out on his larks.
Got his hair cut short, and his mustacher shaved off. There's his
clothes too, up-stairs--reg'lar stableman's suit--masquerading things--
such togs for a gent like him to wear! Poor chap, it was a bad case,
though, for he was nearly killed. Well, of course, they brought him
here, and asked him his name, when, just being able to speak, he says
the very last thing that was in his poor head, before the sense was
knocked out of it, and all its works were brought to a stand still.
`What's your name?' they says; and as I said before, he answers the very
last thing as was in his head before he was stopped short, and that was
the name of the place he had been to--Brownjohn Street; and, saying it,
no doubt, very feebly, they didn't hear any more than the Brownjohn, so
they put him down as Brown, and his Christian name after it, as is their
custom, John--Brown, John; and here he's lain insensible to this day.
But come on up, sir."
Following an attendant, Harry and the sergeant were ushered into a long,
whitewashed ward, where, on either side, in their iron bedsteads, lay
sufferers from the many accidents constantly occurring in the London
streets. Here was a man who had fallen from a scaffold; there one who
had had his arm crushed by machinery, and, all around, suffering enough
to affect the stoutest heart. The sergeant, though, had no eye for
these, and swiftly leading the way down the centre, he conducted Harry
to where, weak, pale, and helpless, on his bed of suffering, lay Lionel
Redgrave,--his hair shaven from his temples, and the large surgical
bandages about his head adding greatly to the cadaverous expression of
his countenance.
There was not the slightest doubt of his having suffered severely--it
was written too plainly on his face; but he seemed now to be perfectly
sensible, and as Clayton approached, he tried feebly to hold out his
hand, whispering as he did so, the one word--
"Harry!"
Sir Francis sat holding the other hand, anxiously watching his son's
face, and hardly reassured by the house-surgeon's declaration that, with
anything like care, the young man was now out of danger.
"Don't speak to him, Clayton," said Sir Francis. "Don't talk, my dear
boy. Pray remember your condition."
"All right," was the reply, but in very feeble tones. "Seems as if I
had been to sleep, and only just woke up. Confounded Hansom!--over me
in a moment--Martin's Lane--remember no more."
"Yes, yes, we know all," said Sir Francis; "but for my sake now be
silent."
"I must put in a word, too," said the house-surgeon, approaching. "I
think he has borne as much as will be beneficial for one day. I must
ask you to leave now. To-morrow he will be better able to bear a
visit."
"Another ten minutes," pleaded Sir Francis. "Not one instant more. We
will not talk."
The surgeon bowed his head, when Harry, after warmly pressing the young
man's hand--for he somehow felt thoroughly at ease within his own
breast--retired with the surgeon and the detective to another part of
the ward.
"Curious case this, sir, eh?" said the sergeant.
"Well, yes," said the surgeon. "But what a strange whim! We had not
the most remote idea but that he was some young groom out of place. I
judged the latter from the whiteness of his hands, and I must really do
our young friend the credit of saying that he thoroughly looked his
part."
"I believe you, sir," said the sergeant, "for I was took in,--as reg'lar
as I was ever took in before. But they will do this sort of thing,
these young gents, with nothing else upon their hands. I don't wonder
at it. Must be a miserable life!"
The last remark was made so seriously, and in such perfect good faith,
that the surgeon and Harry Clayton exchanged glances, smiling the while.
"I hope," said the latter, "that he will soon be fit to be removed."
"Well, before long," said the surgeon. "Ten days or so. Not sooner--
bad case rather. It was only this morning that he became sensible; and
I don't think that even now he fairly realises the length of time that
he has been lying there."
"But this must be a most unusual case," said Clayton. "Surely you never
had a suspension of the faculties for so long?"
"Oh yes!" said the surgeon. "Such things do happen. Concussion of, or
pressure upon the brain from a fracture, gives us at times some
exceedingly interesting studies. In this case, the horse must have
struck your friend full on the temple, and I wonder that he was not
killed."
Then, according to the custom of his _confreres_, the surgeon proceeded
to dilate upon the number of eighths of an inch higher or lower which
would have been sufficient for the blow to have caused death. But he
was interrupted in his discourse by the approach of Sir Francis, who now
came up, watch in hand.
"The ten minutes are at an end, and I thank you, sir," he said. "I am
indeed most grateful for your skilful treatment of my son. How can I
ever disburden myself of the obligation?"
"Oh! if you come to that, easily enough," laughed the surgeon, who fully
believed, and held unflinchingly to the faith, that his hospital was the
best in London, sparing no pains to let every one know that it was also
one of the poorest. "We don't want such patients as your son here, Sir
Francis Redgrave; and you may depend in future upon receiving our yearly
report, with, I hope, your name down as one of our donors."
Sir Francis shook hands warmly, saying nothing, but thinking the more
deeply; and then, bidding farewell to the sergeant at the door, he was
accompanied by Clayton back to their temporary home.
They had not been back long though, before there was a step on the
stair, and Mr Stiff, the landlord, came up to announce a visitor.
"Who?" said Sir Francis.
"That there little jigging man, sir, as Mr Lionel used to buy his dogs
of in--"
"Tell him that I am unwell--that I cannot see him," exclaimed Sir
Francis; and Mr Stiff took his departure, but only to return at the end
of five minutes.
"Well, Mr Stiff?"
"I can't get rid of him, please, Sir Francis. He says he should be so
glad if you'd see him only for a minute. He won't detain you more, and
he's in a terrible way about your saying you can't."
"Well, show him up," said Sir Francis, who was not in the humour to
refuse anything in the gladness and thankfulness which now filled his
heart.
"Shall I see him?" said Clayton, offering to relieve Sir Francis of the
task.
"No; perhaps it is something about poor Lionel. I will see him."
The next minute there was the peculiar thumping noise of D. Wragg's feet
in the passage, but Sir Francis found time to say a few words before the
dealer readied the room.
"Is not this the curious-looking man at the house we searched?"
"The same," said Harry.
"Ah, yes!--I forgot," said Sir Francis; "these troubles have tried me.
But here he is."
Sir Francis was right, for the noise increased, the door was thrown
open, and the next moment, in a tremendous state of excitement, D. Wragg
stood confessed.
Volume 3, Chapter XVIII.