“Yes,” he replied, in the same cool and determined tone. “You seem incredulous, but I am sure. Look!”
He put his hand to the back of his head and withdrew it, holding it before my eyes.
“Blood! Good heavens?” I ejaculated, as again the light revealed his thin grimy fingers.
“True, and I’ve not long to live—all the more reason, is it not, that I should make haste? Will you come to my home, now?”
“At once. But let us drive to a doctor and see about your head.” All my repugnance had vanished.
“Wait,” he said, shouting to the cabman an address. I remember that we at once altered our course, but whither we were proceeding I cared not—knew not. Here was, perhaps, an elucidation of the mystery forthcoming, and I had nearly done my utmost to prevent it.
“Go on; tell me all you can,” I demanded, when, after considerable persuasion, he had consented to have his head bound up as well as my slight knowledge of surgery permitted.
“Presently. When we get home—or what was once my home,” he rejoined. He was paler than before, and leaned back in a state apparently of the utmost exhaustion. His necktie had been loosened, and I had placed my travelling rug around the thinly-covered chest, yet in spite of this the severe reaction affected him severely. Sometimes he closed his eyes, and every now and then, when we passed along streets where the lights were more brilliant than in others, he stared vacantly at the roof of the cab.
Once, when I was leaning over him, making him a little more comfortable, a tear rolled down the thin, haggard cheek.
The journey seemed interminable. Street after street we traversed, and yet our journey’s end appeared as far off as ever. We had evidently wandered a long way before our driver received a definite address, or possibly he was lengthening the course for his own benefit.