He turned to stare at me in a puzzled way.
“I don’t understand you at all,” he said. “You don’t behave like a patient.”
“I’m not a patient,” I said solemnly. “I’m Sherlock Holmes: remember?”
He looked sad again and went out. Minutes ticked by. Hopper didn’t move. He continued to snore, his face slack and exhausted.
Quell returned after what seemed hours and couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. He carried a tray covered with a towel.
“Now look,” I said, sitting up. “Suppose you take off my handcuff? Then if there’s trouble I can help you. You seem to be a sensible sort of guy. If he wakes up and grabs you I can hit him over the head.”
He looked at me seriously like a horse inspecting a doubtful sack of oats.
“I couldn’t do that,” he said. “It would be against the rules.”
Well, I had done all I could. The ball was in his corner now, and it was up to him.
“Okay,” I said, struggling. “At least I’ll pray for you.”