He did so, and I helped Tollemache as best I could downstairs.
The four men watched our descent over the banisters.
As soon as I had got my patient out on the steps, one of the policemen came up to me.
"What's the trouble, sir?" he demanded. "Can we help you?"
"This gentleman is hopelessly drunk," I replied—"I thought it possible I might need your assistance in getting him from the house. You will oblige me much by helping me now to put him in the cab."
"No other trouble in there, sir?" asked the man, meaningly.
"None," I answered. "Will you kindly take the gentleman's other arm?"
The policeman did so—his eyes were full of significance. He guessed, of course, that I was hiding something, but it was not for him to make any further remarks.
I took Tollemache straight back to my own house, and for the next week I had once again to lend him what aid I could in fighting the terrible demons who attack the victims of delirium tremens. I engaged two skilful men to nurse him, and, between us, we managed to drag the poor fellow away from the shores of death.
All this time I was in daily communication with Beatrice Sinclair. I got to know her well during these dark days. She was a girl to win the respect and admiration of any man, and she undoubtedly won mine. There was something grandly simple and unconventional about her.