“I never heard of anything of the kind,” replied Wrigley.
“Humph!” ejaculated the Doctor, “just the sort of case I should expect to meet with where men went out after game, and then lay in hiding after a fight with the keepers.”
“I can do no more now,” he said, after a busy pause. “I’ll come and see him to-morrow, and dress the places again. They will not kill him. I daresay the wound in the shoulder will heal now; the bite, too, for a time—may break out again, though.”
Just then Wrigley’s hand went to his pocket, and the Doctor frowned.
“Never mind that, sir,” he said. “This was done out of charity. If all I hear is right, we are fellow-sufferers.”
“You lost, then, by the mine,” said Wrigley eagerly.
“Yes, sir, heavily, when some confounded scoundrel put about that report, and made me join in the panic. But the fellow who bought up the shares has been nicely trapped—and—why, hang it all, are you the Mr Wrigley?”
“At your service, sir,” said the solicitor coldly, but looking rather white.
“Then, Mr Wrigley, I have the pleasure of telling you that you are a confounded scoundrel, and I’m glad you’ve lost by your scheme. Stop! one word! what about Jessop Reed?”
“He is outside, sir; you can speak to him.”