The doctor, who had been standing gloomily in the background, now came forward and began snapping out instructions in Turkish. The windows were promptly shut, the heating turned up, and the Assistant Manager dispatched on an errand. He returned, almost immediately, with an enamel bowl which was then filled with hot water from the bathroom. The doctor removed the towel from Graham’s hand, sponged the blood away, and inspected the wound. Then he looked up and said something to the Manager.
“He says, Monsieur,” reported the Manager, complacently, “that it is not serious-no more than a little scratch.”
“I already knew that. If you wish to go back to bed, please do so. But I should like some hot coffee. I am cold.”
“Immediately, Monsieur.” He snapped his fingers to the Assistant Manager, who scuttled out. “And if there is anything else, Monsieur?”
“No, thank you. Nothing. Good night.”
“At your service, Monsieur. It is all most regrettable. Good night.”
He went. The doctor cleaned the wound carefully, and began to dress it. Graham wished that he had not telephoned Kopeikin. The fuss was over. It was now nearly four o’clock. But for the fact that Kopeikin had promised to call in to see him, he might have had a few hours’ sleep. He was yawning repeatedly. The doctor finished the dressing, patted it reassuringly, and looked up. His lips worked.
“Maintenant,” he said laboriously, “il faut dormir.”
Graham nodded. The doctor got to his feet and repacked his bag with the air of a man who has done everything possible for a difficult patient. Then he looked at his watch and sighed. “Trèstard,” he said. “Gitece g -im. Adiyo, efendi.”
Graham mustered his Turkish. “Adiyo, hekim efendi. Cok tesekkür ederim.”