Mr. Fentolin smiled.
“My dear Mr. Dunster,” he reminded him, “you were in a railway accident, you know; there is no possible doubt about that. And the wound in your head is still there, in a very dangerous place. Men who have been in railway accidents, and who have a gaping wound very close to their brain, are subject to delusions. I have simply done my best to play the Good Samaritan. Your clothes and papers are all untouched. If my eminent physician had pronounced you ready to travel a week ago, you would certainly have been allowed to depart a week ago. Any interference in your movements has been entirely in the interests of your health.”
Mr. Dunster tried to sit up but found himself unable.
“So you think they won’t believe my story, eh?” he muttered. “Well, we shall see.”
Mr. Fentolin thoughtfully contemplated the burning end of his cigarette for a moment.
“If I believed,” he said, “that there was any chance of your statements being accepted, I am afraid I should be compelled, in all our interests, to ask Doctor Sarson to pursue just a step further that experiment into the anatomy of your brain with which he has already trifled.”
Mr. Dunster’s face was suddenly ghastly. His reserve of strength seemed to ebb away. The memory of some horrible moment seemed to hold him in its clutches.
“For God’s sake, leave me alone!” he moaned. “Let me get away, that’s all; let me crawl away!”
“Ah!” Mr. Fentolin murmured. “That sounds much more reasonable. When you talk like that, my friend, I feel indeed that there is hope for you. Let us abandon this subject for the present. Have you solved the puzzle yet?” he asked Meekins.
Meekins was standing below the closed trap-door. He had already dragged up a wooden case underneath and was piling it with various articles of furniture.