Ten minutes later and he was tapping at McLean's door. It was opened by the hospital attendant,—slowly and only a few inches.
"Can I see the lieutenant?" he asked.
"I am very sorry," whispered the man, mindful of the visitor's prodigality in the past and hopeful of future favors. "I have strict orders to admit nobody to-night until the doctor sees him again. The lieutenant isn't so well, sir, and Dr. Bayard had to administer sedatives before he left. I think he is sleeping just now, though he may only be trying to."
Holmes paused, reluctant and a little irresolute.
"Is there nothing I can do or say, sir, if he wakes?" asked the attendant.
"Can you give him a letter and say nothing about it to anybody?"
"Certainly I can,—if it's one that won't harm him."
"It will do him good, unless I'm mistaken; and he ought to have it to-night: he'll sleep better for it. I'll give it to you at tattoo.—Ah, Robert! I might have known you'd be in search of me and that I was delaying dinner. Say I'll be there instantly."
Meantime, Sergeant Freeman had reported to Major Miller as directed, and was standing attention, cap in hand, at that officer's desk, while the adjutant was scratching away across the room, his pen racing over the paper as he copied the despatch his commander had slowly and thoughtfully dictated.
"You say that Parsons is the best man to send, sergeant?"