“Brandy, meat juice, ammonia,” murmured Mr. Fortune, who was writing, “and that. Hurry.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Bell detached himself from Melitta Jacob. He took off his hat and tiptoed to the bed. “Have they done for him, sir,” he muttered.
Mr. Fortune was again busy over the senseless body. One of its hands was clenched. He opened the fingers gently, and drew out a greenish lump painted with a zigzag pattern in red. “The magic stone,” he said. “A charm against death. Well, well.”
* * * * * *
On his lawn which slopes to the weir stream Reggie Fortune lay in a deck chair, and a syringa, waxen white, shed its fragrance about him. He opened his eyes to see the jaunty form of the Hon. Sidney Lomas tripping towards him. “Stout fellow,” he murmured. “That’s cider cup. There was ice in it once,” and he shut his eyes again.
“I infer that the patient is out of your hands.”
“They’re going for their honeymoon to Nigeria.”
“Good Gad,” said Lomas.
“Collecting, you see. The objects of art of the noble savage. She’s rather a dear.”
“I should have thought he’d done enough collecting. Does he understand yet what happened?”