“I often try to think about it; but it don’t matter. I say.”
“Yes.”
“Doctor’s very proud of my case, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, very.”
“Don’t think he has stolen the bullet, do you?”
“Oh, no, no; not likely.”
“No, of course not,” said Barron thoughtfully, as he sank back in his chair and went on smoking.
Brettison spoke to him again and again, but his words had not the slightest effect; the man seemed perfectly unconscious of all that was said, and at last there was a tap at the door, and the nurse entered with a tray, and a little tureen of beef tea, with thin slices of toast.
“He always has this, sir, about this time,” said the nurse apologetically, “and the doctor said that it must be given regularly.”
“Quite right, Mary. Of course.”