“Would you like a little breakfast?”
“I should like a lot,” declared Baltazar.
The nurse laughed. The patient was better. She turned to leave the room, but Baltazar checked her.
“Before you go just tell me if I’ve got the situation clear. The European war has been going on for two years. In the course of a new-fangled kind of warfare the Germans drop bombs from Zeppelins over England. A Zeppelin dropped bombs on my house on Tuesday night—to get rid of them—so Mrs. Pillivant said. You see, everything’s coming back to me. Afterwards it came down in flames, and all the crew were burned. Is that right?”
“Perfectly,” said the nurse.
“Now I know more or less where I am,” said Baltazar.
The nurse fetched his breakfast, which he ate with appetite. He had barely finished when Dr. Rewsby entered.
“This is capital. Capital,” said he. “Sitting up and taking nourishment. How’s the pulse?”
“Never mind about me,” said Baltazar, as the doctor took hold of his wrist. “What about Quong Ho?”
The doctor gave a serious report. Fractured skull, severe concussion. Broken legs. Semi-consciousness, however, had returned—the hopeful sign. But it would be a ticklish and tedious business.