"Look under the bed," mocked Abinger.
"Look under it yourself, my dear fellow!"
They returned to the dining-room.
"What a beast of a night!" continued Bramham explosively. "What is one to do? I've a good mind to take a run up to the Club and see whether I can do anything, or where the others are ... shall I? Will you people come too?"
"No," said Poppy quietly. "We'll stay here. I have something to say to Mr. Abinger."
At any other time Bramham might have found this remark surprising, but on this upside-down night, when nothing had happened as it should have done, and the air was full of odd scents and sounds, he merely thought it in keeping with the rest of things, so he departed, without even taking his hat.
CHAPTER XXXIV
NICK CAPRON lay on a bed in one of the bedrooms of the Club—a sobbing, raving, blaspheming figure, fearful in bandages sodden with blood, his arms strapped to the sides of the bed to keep him from tearing at his throat. The doctor and Portal stood by, regarding him, one with a calm, professional eye, the other with a wet forehead. Carson sat on a chair at the foot of the bed with a face like a stone wall, staring straight before him, his hands in his pockets.
The injured man spoke continuously in a gurgling, guttural way, half of his words intelligible, the other half maniacal. His main plaint was for the sight of Carson, whom he had not recognised.