“First,” I said, “let me see Fergus.”
The boy lay in his high bed, bandaged: his bruised face gleaming with
a spiritual torture that was almost like thirst in its need of being
quenched.
He did not wait for the door to shut. He shouted:
“It was no accident! It was foul play, I tell you! Murder!”
I pressed him back on his pillow. He struggled. So I let him half rise,
knowing his need for spiritual quenchment more dangerous than his
wounds.
“It must have been done at the garage. The six nuts of the left front
wheel. Kill me this instant, if it ain’t the truth. While I was havin’
supper. Foul play it was. They left the bolts in. Devilish. As soon
as I speeded up, on the curve, after the tracks.... It was someone
hellish. Kill me if it wasn’t. Oh--kill me at any rate.” He plunged his
face in the pillows. He moaned. Then his pain sobered him.