"I should like to," said Claud at once.
"Should we go after all, sir?" asked Joe Battishill, diffidently.
"What—on the search expeditions? Yes, it would be as well to rouse the neighborhood," said Cranmer, after a moment's consideration; "but tell the Stanton constables this extraordinary fact about the property not being taken. If only I could get a word with the poor fellow himself,—if only he were conscious!"
"He'll not be conscious yet awhile," said the doctor.
They ascended the old stairs with their weighty bannisters, the loud tread with which the doctor crossed the kitchen having vanished entirely. His step was noiseless as he opened the bed-room door. It was a big room, airy and clean, and the bed was a large and cumbersome four-poster, with pink hangings. Among a forest of pillows lay Allonby, his fine proportions shrouded in one of Farmer Battishill's night-shirts. His eyes were wide open, and with the arm which was not strapped up he was beating wearily on the counterpane.
The farmer's wife, having no ice, was laying bandages of vinegar and water on his head to cool him. The doctor had set the casement window wide open, and the low clucking of the fowls in the farmyard was softly audible. Mr. Cranmer approached the bedside and looked down at the sufferer.
Allonby was a fine-looking young man—perhaps thirty years old, with strongly defined features and a pale complexion. He had a rather long, hooked nose, his eyes were set in deep under hollow brows, and his chin was prominent, giving a marked individuality to the face, which was, however, too thin for beauty. It was the face of a man who was always rather anxious, to whom the realities of life were irksome, but who had nevertheless always to consider the question of £ s. d.—a worn face, which just now, in its suffering and pallid aspect, looked very sad. The soft dark brown hair lay in a loose wave over a fine and thoughtful forehead. It was with an instinct of warm friendliness that the gazer turned from the bedside.
"Oh, what a shame it is!" he said, indignantly. "I think I never heard of such a butchery. But now, the thing is to find his friends. Had he a pocket-book with him? If not, I must walk down to the inn and inquire—he must have left letters or papers somewhere."
"Here's a pocket-book," said the doctor, holding out a leathern pouch of untidy and well-worn appearance.
Claud carried it to the window, and opened it. It contained several receipted bills, six postage-stamps, two five-pound notes, a couple of photographs of a racing crew in striped jerseys, with the name "Byrne, Richmond," on the back of them, an exhibitor's admission to the Royal Academy exhibition, and several cards of invitation and private view tickets. These served to elucidate the fact that the artist's name was Osmond Allonby, but no more.