“No, no,” said he: “don't go on so, my poor soul; you did all for the best; and now we must make the best of what is done. Hartshorn! brandy! and caution! For those two assassins have tied my hands.”
While applying these timid remedies, he inquired if the cause was known. They told him they knew nothing; but that David had been wrecked on the coast of France, and had fallen down senseless in the street: a clerk of Mr. Hardie's had recognised him, and brought him home: so Alfred said.
“Then the cause is mintil,” said Sampson, “unless he got a blow on the hid in bein' wrecked.”'
He then examined David's head carefully, and found a long scar.
“But this is not it,” said he; “this is old.”
Mrs. Dodd clasped her hands, and assured him it was new to her: her David had no scar there when he left her last.
Pursuing his examination, Sampson found an open wound in his left shoulder.
He showed it them; and they were all as pale as the patient in a moment. He then asked to see his coat, and soon discovered a corresponding puncture in it, which he examined long and narrowly.
“It is a stab—with a one-edged knife.”
There was a simultaneous cry of horror.