“The doctor will be here in a minute—ah, here he is now!”
The doctor entered hurriedly, hatless and with his medicine case under his arm.
“What in Sam Hill is the matter?” he cried. “Man shot, right in the hotel, in broad daylight? Outrageous! Unheard of!”
“It’s a fact, nevertheless,” murmured Nick, “and I’ve got it good. Leave me alone with the doctor, please,” he added, turning to the clerk.
The clerk went away, closing the door softly behind him.
Then Nick sat upon the edge of the bed, a half smile on his face.
“Why—why, what are you doing that for?” queried the astounded doctor.
“Sh-h-h!” whispered Nick. “The wound is nothing—it simply grazed my shoulder. A piece of court-plaster is all it needs. If you have that with you, doc, you can fix me all right in a jiffy.”
“You acted as though you were half killed,” grumbled the doctor.
“That’s all right,” Nick went on, in a low tone. “I’m a detective, and I want it to appear as though I have received a bad wound and may be laid up for a month. Are you willing to help out the cause of justice by creating such an impression?”