“Yes, yes,” said the tall doctor. “Let him be, nurse.”
The hand crept on laboriously out of shadow into light. The finger tips, clinging to the surface of the neck, crawling with infinite pains, seemed to have a separate life of their own. The single eye no longer stared at the ceiling but turned anxiously in its deep socket as though questing for some attentive face.
“Is he trying to show us something, Sir Matthew?” asked Fox.
“No, no. Quite impossible. The movement has no meaning. He doesn’t know—”
“I’d be obliged if you’d ask him, just the same.”
The doctor gave the slightest possible shrug, leant forward, slid his hand under the sheet, and spoke distinctly.
“Do you want to tell us something?”
The eyelid flickered.
“Do you want to tell us how you were hurt?”
The door opened. Lord Charles Lamprey came into the half light. He stood motionless at the foot of the bed and watched his brother’s hand move, lagging inch by inch, up the sharp angle of his jaw.