"Has anyone sent for a doctor?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," one of the bank attaches answered. "We telephoned for one at once—here he is, now!" he added, as a little black-bearded man entered, carry the inevitably-identifying medicine case.
The newcomer glanced at the body, waved us back, fell on one knee, stripped away the clothing from the breast and applied his ear to the heart. Then he looked into the staring eyes, drew down the lids, watched them snap up again, and then hastily opened his case.
"Let's have some water," he said.
"Then he's not dead?" I questioned, as one of the clerks sprang to obey.
"Dead? No; but he's had a taste or whiff of something that has stopped the heart action."
With a queer, creepy feeling over my scalp, I remembered the little flask half-full of blood-red liquid which Crochard carried in his pocket.
But he had not meant murder this time; I remembered that Godfrey had said he never killed an adversary. The doctor worked briskly away, and, at the end of a few minutes, Simmonds's eyes suddenly closed, he drew a long breath, and sat erect. Then his eyes opened, and he sat swaying unsteadily and staring amazedly about him.
"Best lie down again," said the doctor soothingly. "You're a little wobbly yet, you know."
"Where am I?" gasped Simmonds. Then his eyes encountered mine.
"Lester!" he said. "Where is he—Piggott? Not…."