We traversed a maze of passages to a curtained doorway where a young surgeon, immaculate in white, awaited us.
"You want to see the old man who has been stabbed?" he said.
Hugh gripped my arm.
"Stabbed! Is he—"
The surgeon nodded.
"Yes. He must have made a hell of a fight. He's all slashed up—too old to stand the shock."
Watkins caught his breath sharply.
"Of course, he may not be your man," the surgeon added soothingly. "This way."
He led us into a long room lined with beds. A high screen had been reared around one of them, and he drew it aside and motioned for us to enter. An older surgeon stood by the head of the narrow bed with a hypodermic needle in his hand. Opposite him kneeled a nurse. Two bulky men in plainclothes, obvious policemen, stood at the foot.
And against the pillow lay a head that might have been Hugh's, frosted and lined by the years. The gray hair grew in the same even way as Hugh's. The hawk-nose, the deep-set eyes, the stubborn jaw, the close-clipped mustache, the small ears, were all the same. As we entered, the eyes flashed open an instant, then closed.