“You got a blow on the head by the fall of a chimney,” she replied. “But I can’t let you talk now. Mr. Grant is coming in to sleep here to-night, as I’ve promised to take a turn sitting up with a patient who is very ill. You can ask Mr. Grant to tell you anything you wish to know in the morning, but now you must go to sleep.”
That something had happened, notwithstanding her assurance to the contrary, I felt sure; but what that something was I did not know, nor did I very much care, for I felt dull and silly, and more than inclined to follow her advice.
This I must in the end have done, for when next I opened my eyes it was broad daylight, and Grant was standing in his shirt sleeves before the looking-glass, shaving. My head was clearer now, and I was able to recall what had taken place up to the moment when I had lost my senses after the explosion at the General Post Office.
“Have they got him, Grant?” I inquired.
He jumped like a “kicking” rifle.
“Good Lord! old man, how you startled me! You’ve made me slash myself horribly. Got whom?” he said.
“Mullen,” I answered.
“Mullen? Oh, then you do know all about it? No, they haven’t. But how are you feeling?”
“Like a boiled owl. How long have I been ill?”
“Three weeks. You got knocked on the head by a chimney-pot or something, and had a touch of concussion of the brain.”