“But what are you talking about?” he cried.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s all so extraordinary. But look here, I must go down and see my policeman. He’s downstairs in the sitting room. You’d better come with me.”
They went down together. The policeman, in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves, was lying on the sofa, with a very long face.
“Look here!” said Miss James to him. “Is it true you’re lame?”
“It is true. That’s why I’m here. I can’t walk,” said the fair-haired young man as tears came to his eyes.
“But how did it happen? You weren’t lame last night,” she said.
“I don’t know how it happened—but when I woke up and tried to stand up, I couldn’t do it.” The tears ran down his distressed face.
“How very extraordinary!” she said. “What can we do about it?”
“Which foot is it?” asked Marchbanks. “Let us have a look at it.”
“I don’t like to,” said the poor devil.