"Never mind that now," he said stoically.
Despite his protests I carefully removed his jacket and cut away the
sleeve of his shirt. There was an ugly wound on his arm. "How did this
happen?" I asked, horrified.
"It's nothing," he said. Then he grinned momentarily. "The chap who
caused it is feeling _no_ pain at all!" He closed his eyes and his head
began to sway. "If you have any liquor," he mumbled, "I feel faint,
suddenly--"
I rummaged through my desk and found a tiny bottle of some cordial a
colleague had once brought me as a jest, knowing I do not drink. While
Mr. Rumplestein, or O'Grady, gulped down the liquid I inspected the
wound. "A doctor should look at that," I said.
He shook his head and leaned back in the chair, the top of his head a
good twelve inches below the top of the chair.
"I feel better now," he sighed.
"Then perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what this is all
about." As I spoke I washed and dressed his wound as best I could. "You
realize, my good fellow, for all I know you may be wanted by the police,
in which case I could be arrested for harboring a criminal."
"I assure you, Professor Clarke, I am no criminal." He plucked a bit of
mud from his beard and carefully deposited it on the table.
"But you've been wounded! And you infer you did some bodily harm to
someone else."