“Hush, dear! Somebody is coming.”
It was the great surgeon whom the Prime Minister had sent for. He examined the injuries carefully and gave certain instructions. “Mind you do this, Sister,” and that, and the other. But Glory could see that he had no hope. To relieve the pain in the head he wanted to administer morphia, but John refused to have it.
“I am going into the presence of the King,” he said. “Let me have all my wits about me.”
While the doctor was there the police sergeant returned with a magistrate and the reporter. “Sorry to intrude, but hearing your patient was now conscious——” and then he prepared to take John's deposition.
The reporter opened his notebook, the police magistrate stood at the foot of the bed, the doctor at one side of it and Glory at the other side, holding John's hand and quivering.
“Do you know who struck you, sir?”
There was silence for a moment, and then came “Yes.”
“Who was it?”
There was another pause, and then, “Don't ask me.”
“But your own evidence will be most valuable; and, indeed, down to the present we have no other. Who is it, sir?”