CHAPTER XII
WHEN Richard Duvall returned to consciousness, an hour later, he lay upon a couch in Mr. Stapleton's library. A doctor, hastily summoned, was bending over him. Mr. Stapleton sat grimly in an arm chair. There was no one else in the room.
"My wife! Is she here?" the detective cried, as he tried to rise.
The doctor pushed him gently back. "Compose yourself, Monsieur," he said in a soothing voice. "You are not badly hurt. Merely stunned for the moment. A slight cut—that is all. You will be quite yourself again in half an hour."
"But my wife!" He gazed eagerly about the room.
"What do you mean, Duvall?" inquired Mr. Stapleton, calmly. "Why do you think your wife is here?"
"A trace of delirium. He will be all right in a few moments. Very usual in such cases," the doctor whispered.
"I heard her voice. She called to me by name, just as that fellow struck me."
"My dear sir, your mind is wandering. Compose yourself, I beg." The doctor attempted to press his patient back upon the pillows.