Part 23 (1/2)
”Oh, it's all very well for you to pretend to know nothing about it,” I cried angrily. ”But I tell you that as soon as I'm able I'll apply for a warrant for his arrest on a charge of attempted murder. Last night he tried to kill me.”
”I don't understand you,” the stranger responded. ”I don't, of course, expect you to admit any complicity in the affair,” I snapped. ”You'd be a fool if you did. All I tell you is that an attempt has been made upon my life by a man to whom I was introduced as Hickman.”
”Not in this room?”
I hesitated.
”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.”
I had grown angry at this lame attempt of his to feign ignorance.
”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.”