“No,” I said. “I am Sherlock Holmes. And if you take my tip I wouldn’t go near Watson. He’s in one of his moods.”
He gave me a long, sad, worried stare. From the look of him I guessed he hadn’t been mixed up with lunatics for very long.
“But that’s Mr. Hopper,” he said patiently, as if talking to a child.
Hopper was sitting up now, clenching and unclenching his fists, and snarling at Quell.
Quell may have only been in the racket a short time, but he was smart enough to see Hopper wasn’t in the mood to play pat-a-cake. He eyed Hopper as you might eye a tiger that’s suddenly walked into your sitting-room.
“I don’t think Mr. Hopper wants to be bothered with tea,” I said. “And if you take my tip you’ll keep away until Bland returns.”
“I can’t do that,” he said dubiously. “Dr. Salzer is out, and Bland isn’t likely to be back until after midnight. He really shouldn’t have gone.”
“It’s too late to worry about that,” I said. “Fade away, brother. Shake the dust off your feet. And if you could bring me a little Scotch for dinner I’d welcome it.”
“I’m afraid patients aren’t allowed alcohol,” he said seriously, without taking his eyes off Hopper.
“Then drink some yourself and come and breathe over me,” I said. “Even that would be better than nothing.”