“No,” I replied. “He’s been away for some weeks, I think. Why?”
“Because I saw him yesterday in King’s Road. He was driving in a fly, and had one eye bandaged up. Met with an accident, I should think.”
“An accident!” I exclaimed in consternation. “He wrote to me the other day, but did not mention it.”
“He’s been trying his hand at unravelling the mystery of poor Courtenay’s death, hasn’t he?” the old man asked.
“I believe so?”
“And failed—eh?”
“I don’t think his efforts have been crowned with very much success, although he has told me nothing,” I said.
In response the old man grunted in dissatisfaction. I knew how disgusted he had been at the bungling and utter failure of the police inquiries, for he was always declaring Scotland Yard seemed to be useless, save for the recovery of articles left in cabs.
He glanced at his watch, snatched up his silk hat, buttoned his coat, and, wishing me good-bye, went out to catch the Pullman train.
Next day about two o’clock I was in one of the wards at Guy’s, seeing the last of my patients, when a telegram was handed to me by one of the nurses.