A few minutes later, however, he returned, accompanied by a dark-haired, well-dressed man of about thirty, tall, rather good-looking, and apparently a gentleman. The instant the latter saw me he rushed forward, crying, in a voice of distress—
“Oh, my dear sir, whatever has happened?”
“My head,” I explained. “It was that ugly-faced scoundrel Hickman. Where is he?”
“Hickman?” echoed the new-comer. “Hickman? Who’s he?”
“Oh, it’s all very well for you to pretend to know nothing about it,” I cried angrily. “But I tell you that as soon as I’m able I’ll apply for a warrant for his arrest on a charge of attempted murder. Last night he tried to kill me.”
“I don’t understand you,” the stranger responded. “I don’t, of course, expect you to admit any complicity in the affair,” I snapped. “You’d be a fool if you did. All I tell you is that an attempt has been made upon my life by a man to whom I was introduced as Hickman.”
“Not in this room?”
I hesitated.
“No, not in this room,” I admitted. “It was in a house at Chelsea.”
The young man exchanged meaning glances with the man-servant.