"When did I have that fall; you know—the one that made it necessary for you to amputate?"
"Your accident happened yesterday evening, but there is no necessity for amputation," returned Crisp. "Now, my dear fellow, just lie back, will you?—and don't ask questions. That somni-chloride is still lingering in your head. I shall have to be going in a minute."
Mortmain obeyed the surgeon's instructions, but he was hard at work thinking the thing out logically. It was clear that there had been no amputation, no arrest, no inspectors from Scotland Yard. That scene with Flaggs, horribly distinct as it still was, had had no actuality. But where did fact end and illusion begin? Had the notes been taken? Had there been a murder? Was he a bankrupt? The different propositions entangled themselves helplessly with one another. At the end of a minute he asked deliberately:
"Miss Fickles, did a man take some papers from my table this morning?"
"Yes, Sir Richard," replied the nurse.
Mortmain's heart sank.
"Er—was—did anything happen to Lord Russell?" he asked the surgeon faintly.
"Yes. But don't talk or think of it, Mortmain. I order you! Do you understand?"
A ripple of perspiration broke out on his forehead and it seemed as if a film had rolled off his vision. Of course, he had taken the chloride just after Miss Fickles had gone downstairs for him, and then Crisp and Jermyn had come. He had felt so miserable! And now he felt so much better! He opened his eyes, the same Sir Richard that had inhaled the anæsthetic so obediently.
"I am quite myself now, Sir Penniston," he asserted quietly. "I want to ask one more question. Flynt was not here, was he?"