“It was. But hush! we may be overheard. Let us go in.”
Filled with horror and amazement, I followed him up the tortuous stairs of a house in close proximity to the spot. After mounting several flights in utter darkness, we entered an attic—as it proved on striking a match—containing only the scantiest possible furniture. In one corner stood a bed, and by it a broken wicker-bottomed chair. An old box was placed near the broken fireplace rusted by damp, and that, with a few other articles, formed the whole contents of the miserable apartment.
He lighted the piece of candle which was upon the box, and after carefully closing the door, we sat down.
Scarcely had we done this, however, than he fell forward with a crash upon the bare floor, the blood at the same time gushing out afresh from the wound at the back of the head, and forming a small pool. Greatly to my relief he spoke almost immediately, although in such low tones as to be scarcely audible.
“It’s useless to call for assistance, for the house is empty. Lay me on the bed, if you can, and I’ll tell you all—everything.”
“But you are hurt, and must be attended to,” I said. There was a pang at my heart all the time, for, with my selfish desire to solve the mystery at once, this new wound meant fresh delay.
“If you leave me you will, on returning, find me dead. Lay me on the bed; keep quiet, and listen.”
Those were the words he spoke, and strangely calm and composed they seemed. With a precipitation which I have never ceased to deplore, I lifted him as he desired, and gave up the idea of trying to obtain medical aid at that hour in a quarter unknown to me.
He was soon arranged as comfortably as possible. The spectacle he presented—spare, pale and gaunt, propped up on a squalid bed, the pillows all stained with blood—will never be erased from my memory.
At a sign from him I snuffed the cheap candle and drew closer to his side.