It was still pouring when he returned next day, this time with two policemen: a senior man from an adjoining town, and a tall, downcast young constable, the unlucky wight who had been careless enough to lose his prisoner.
“He’s conscious, I think, but still very stupid,” Mr. Weston told them. “He doesn’t attempt to speak, but he has taken a little nourishment. You can’t move him yet, surely, Sergeant.”
“That’s for the doctor to say,” said the sergeant. “But I’ll have to leave a man in charge of him: we can’t run the risk of losing him again. Constable Wilkins will relieve you of some of the care of him.”
“Lemme have a look at him!” said Constable Wilkins sourly. “I’ll bet he don’t give me the slip again!”
“I’ll see him first,” said the doctor.
He came out presently.
“You can go in, to identify him,” he said. “But don’t worry him with talk yet; he’s not fit for it. Don’t take your helmets in, either—no need to make him feel he’s in the hands of the police. I’m not keen on his having a shock. . . . And the sight of that chap’s sulky face is enough to give anyone assorted shocks!” he added to himself, as he followed the policemen in. In the background Jean and Jo hovered with downcast looks.
If Constable Wilkins’s face had been sour when he entered the room, it was frankly furious as he turned and strode out. Only the doctor’s lifted finger had prevented the angry words that sprang to his lips.
“Whose little joke is this?” he queried wrathfully. “That’s not my man!”
“Not your man?” queried the Sergeant.