“He has been talking a little, sir?”
“Oh, yes, for a time, and then he finished; and we have not had a word since.”
“No, sir, and you would not till to-morrow now, when he’ll wake up a little again, and talk about what a wonderful case his is.”
“Poor fellow!” said Brettison compassionately.
“And he always seems to have got that bullet on his brain, sir.”
“Naturally,” muttered Brettison.
“And, if you’ll believe me, sir, if he didn’t ask me to confess yesterday that I’d stolen it to show to people, because his was such a curious case.”
Stratton glanced at the man seated there, still smoking placidly, and evidently not grasping a word that was said.
The tray was taken to him, and he submitted to the pipe being removed from his hand, after which, in perfect silence, and in the most mechanical manner, he went on with his meal, while, after a few more words with the nurse, Brettison led the way out into the road, and he and Stratton went back toward the West End.
“Now,” said Brettison at last, “you have seen our deadly enemy—the being who crushes down the future of two people I love. What do you say?”