The dark man meanwhile was brushing his hat, putting on his overcoat, and apparently preparing himself for a journey. There was a Gladstone bag on the table. Into this he put several articles which he took from the chest of drawers. Bertie had completed his own costume for some little time before either spoke.
It was Mr. Rosenheim who addressed him first.
"Come here!"
Bertie went with remarkable celerity. "For a doctor's son, my friend, you are not too well dressed, eh?"
Bertie hung his head; he was conscious of the defects in his attire. The dark man flung him a clothes-brush.
"Brush yourself, and make yourself presentable. There's a jug and basin behind that curtain; wash yourself and brush your hair."
Bertie did as he was bid; never had he been so docile.
It was the most uncomfortable toilet he had ever made. When he had carefully soaped his face all over, and was about to wash it off again, there was a report. A shot whistled through the air and buried itself in the wall about a foot above his head. He dropped as though it had struck him, and all but repeated his former swoon.
"You can get up, my friend. It is only a little practice I am having."
Bertie got up, but the pleasure of that wash was destroyed for him. Mr. Rosenheim's ideas of revolver practice were so peculiar that he was in momentary terror of his aiming at an imaginary bull's-eye in the centre of his back.