At the outset of what was mutually considered a consultation, the financier briefly explained that he had been injured in the lumbar regions, which affected, as he thought, his spinal cord.
On examination, Doctor Peters, who played his part admirably so far as humouring the caprices of his patient went, found that the wound or bruise was not quite so dangerous as it appeared to be in his patient’s eyes, though it was not at all improbable, unless great care was exercised, that a touch of paralysis might supervene.
“But do tell me,” said the doctor, “how it happened.”
“I was strolling about on a marsh not far from Tilbury, awaiting the arrival of a vessel when she passed up the Thames. Just about the same time another and a lighter craft from a different part and a higher latitude,” he explained, enigmatically, “hove in sight. Then two men were landed, who looked like poachers—one was certainly a very reckless knight of the trigger, as he fired off a volley of charges in the direction I was taking. I then felt a thud in the back, like the kick of a horse, doctor.”
“Dear me! Very alarming, no doubt, Mr Falcon. I should say very likely your injury was caused by a spent shot, judging from appearances,” said the doctor, as he further examined the bruise. “Can you raise and bend both legs with perfect ease?”
“No—not—exactly.”
“Ah! I should say it was probably a bullet from a bull-dog pistol that overtook you, and I have no hesitation in saying that no mere dust shot would have produced such a concussion.”
“And yet, doctor, I escaped the rascal and managed to reach a station and to catch a train.”
“What a lucky escape to be sure!”
“It was; but I felt I was hit near the spine, and in the leg as well, for I began to limp as I do now.”