He shook his head weakly and staggered into the room. "Not Rumplestein," he said, so low I could hardly hear him. "Tonight it's O'Grady." He collapsed on my leather chair, mumbling, "The door."
I bolted the door and hurried over to him. "What happened to your arm?"
"Never mind that now," he said stoically.
Despite his protests I carefully removed his jacket and cut away the sleeve of his shirt. There was an ugly wound on his arm. "How did this happen?" I asked, horrified.
"It's nothing," he said. Then he grinned momentarily. "The chap who caused it is feeling no pain at all!" He closed his eyes and his head began to sway. "If you have any liquor," he mumbled, "I feel faint, suddenly—"
I rummaged through my desk and found a tiny bottle of some cordial a colleague had once brought me as a jest, knowing I do not drink. While Mr. Rumplestein, or O'Grady, gulped down the liquid I inspected the wound. "A doctor should look at that," I said.
He shook his head and leaned back in the chair, the top of his head a good twelve inches below the top of the chair.
"I feel better now," he sighed.
"Then perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what this is all about." As I spoke I washed and dressed his wound as best I could. "You realize, my good fellow, for all I know you may be wanted by the police, in which case I could be arrested for harboring a criminal."
"I assure you, Professor Clarke, I am no criminal." He plucked a bit of mud from his beard and carefully deposited it on the table.