“Have you been hurt, sir? Was it burglars?”
“I can’t tell you. Come in,” said Johnson, and led the way back to the disordered library.
The blind was flapping in the draught, for the window, which looked out upon a side street, was open.
“Have you missed anything?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Johnson. “I think it was rather more important than an ordinary burglary. I am going to call Inspector Elk of Scotland Yard, and I think you had better leave the room as it is until he arrives.”
Elk was in his office, laboriously preparing a report on the escape of Hagn, when the call came through. He listened attentively, and then:
“I’ll come down, Johnson. Tell the constable to leave things—ask him to speak to me.”
By the time Elk had arrived, the philosopher was dressed.
“He gave you a pretty hefty one,” said Elk, examining the contusion with a professional eye.
“I wasn’t prepared for it. I expected him to shoot, and he must have struck at me as I fired.”