“What for?” cried Stratton suspiciously.
“Because a wounded man must be better lying down.”
“So that you can lock me in and go for people—for doctors?”
“He is queer,” thought Guest. “The cunning of a man off his head.”
As he thought this he rose, walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and took the key out to hand to his friend.
“There, are you satisfied? Look here, Mal, even to better you I will not play any treacherous trick like that?”
“I believe you,” said Stratton quietly; and he waved away the hand holding the key.
“So far, so good, then. Will you come and lie down while I fetch a doctor?”
“No. I will not have a doctor. It is a mere scratch.”
“Very well. Come and sit down, then.”