"It's all right, Mrs. Denistoun," said I, glancing up. "It's my friend, Jack Foe—my friend that was. With the doctor's leave I'll get him back presently to Jermyn Street, where Jephson and I will look after him for the night.… Jephson used to worship him, and will wait on him as a slave."
And with that—as it seemed amid the blasts of Furnilove's whistle in the porchway and the toot-toot of a taxi, answering it—a quiet man stood above my shoulder. It was the doctor: and Furnilove had been so explicit on the 'phone that the doctor—whose name I learnt afterwards to be Tredgold—almost by magic whipped out a small bottle from his pocket.
"Water," said he, after a look at the patient, "and a tumbler, quick!"
Furnilove dashed into the library and returned with both.
"Bromide," said Dr. Tredgold. "Let him take it down and then hold his head steady for a few minutes.… Right!… Now the question is, where to bestow him? I can't answer for him when the dose wears off: but it's no case to leave with two ladies."
"There's a taxi, doctor," said I, "if we can get him into it. I have a flat in Jermyn Street, and a trustworthy manservant. I suggest that he'll do there for the night."
"Right," said Dr. Tredgold again; "and the sooner the better. I'll come with you, when I've bound up this wound on his hand. It's a nasty one.… It looks to me—Yes, and it is, too!"
"What is it?" I asked.
"A dog-bite."
"So that was what he killed!" thought I, and aloud I said, "Thank God!"