“Very curious, indeed,” observed the doctor. “Now, if you please, you can walk up stairs.”
“If you please, sir,” returned Mr. Blathers; and closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver’s bedroom, Mr. Giles preceding the party with a lighted candle.
Oliver had been dozing, but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so, and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward, and, in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing.
“This,” said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, “this is the lad, who, being accidentally wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d’ye-call-him’s grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand, who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.”
Oliver waited on by the Bow-Street Runners.
London, Richard Bentley, May 1, 1838.
Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice; and the bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity.
“You don’t mean to deny that, I suppose?” said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.
“It was all done for the—for the best, sir!” answered Giles. “I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn’t have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.”