“You don't know?” repeated the doctor, with a faint accent of surprise.
Allbright shook his head.
“You were book-keeper in his office?”
“Yes, but I haven't been there for some time. I never asked any questions.”
The doctor turned and looked at Carroll. Then he went out of the room, with Allbright following, and gave him some directions. He asked for a glass two-thirds full of water and poured some dark drops into it.
“The minute he gets conscious again give him a spoonful of this,” he said, “and you had better sit beside him and watch him.” Then he turned to Allbright's sister, who was trembling from head to foot with a nervous chill. “You take a dose of that whiskey your brother gave him,” he said, jerking his shoulder towards the inner room, “then go to bed, and don't worry your head about him.”
“Oh, doctor, he isn't going to die here?”
“Die here? No, nor nowhere else for one while. There is nothing the matter with the man except he bumped his head rather too hard for comfort.”
“How long is he likely to be here on their hands?” inquired the down-stairs woman.
“He will be able to go home in the morning, I think,” said the doctor.