‘Hollo, my man! that’s more like the time of day! How are you feeling?’
The patient stared hazily up at the doctor, as if his sense of perception was not yet completely restored,—as if this big bearded man was something altogether strange. Atherton bent down beside the doctor.
‘I’m glad to see you looking better, Mr Holt. You know me don’t you? I’ve been running about after you all day long.’
‘You are—you are—’ The man’s eyes closed, as if the effort at recollection exhausted him. He kept them closed as he continued to speak.
‘I know who you are. You are—the gentleman.’
‘Yes, that’s it, I’m the gentleman,—name of Atherton.—Miss Lindon’s friend. And I daresay you’re feeling pretty well done up, and in want of something to eat and drink,—here’s some brandy for you.’
The doctor had some in a tumbler. He raised the patient’s head, allowing it to trickle down his throat. The man swallowed it mechanically, motionless, as if unconscious what it was that he was doing. His cheeks flushed, the passing glow of colour caused their condition of extraordinary, and, indeed, extravagant attenuation, to be more prominent than ever. The doctor laid him back upon the bed, feeling his pulse with one hand, while he stood and regarded him in silence.
Then, turning to the Inspector, he said to him in an undertone:
‘If you want him to make a statement he’ll have to make it now, he’s going fast. You won’t be able to get much out of him,—he’s too far gone, and I shouldn’t bustle him, but get what you can.’
The Inspector came to the front, a notebook in his hand.