“Who, sir?” inquired Wrench.
“That infamous wretch, the gipsy.”
“He has escaped, but don’t trouble yourself about that, we shall catch him. How do you feel now?”
“Very bad—my head swims—I——”
He ceased speaking, having swooned.
A doctor in the immediate neighbourhood was sent for, who at once proceeded to make an examination of the injuries received.
He said there was nothing to be alarmed at; there was a contused wound at the base of the skull. This had, in all probability, been caused by the head coming in contact with the fender, but in addition to this there were two or three abrasures and contusions on the face.
The patient was weak from shock to the system and loss of blood, but there was no danger to be apprehended.
The injuries were strapped up, and the doctor ordered him to keep his bed till his medical adviser’s next visit.
“I care not for myself,” said he to Wrench; “all I am anxious about is that miscreant. Lose no time in hunting him down. Don’t let him escape if you can possibly help.”