“That’s all nonsense,” I cried, with more force than politeness. “I find myself here, in this room, wounded and weak through loss of blood, after having been half murdered, and then you have the cool impudence to deny all knowledge of how I came here. You’re a liar—that’s plain.”
I had grown angry at this lame attempt of his to feign ignorance.
“You are extremely complimentary,” he answered, colouring slightly.
“Well, perhaps you won’t mind telling me the time. I find that that cunning scoundrel Hickman, not content with trying to poison me with a prepared cigar and striking me on the head in that cowardly way, has also robbed me of my watch and chain.”
He glanced at his watch.
“It’s half-past two,” he answered abruptly.
“Half-past two! Then it happened more than twelve hours ago,” I observed.
“I wish Britten would hurry,” the young man remarked. “I don’t like the look of that wound. It’s such a very nasty place.”
“Only a scalp-wound,” I said lightly. “Properly bandaged, it will be all right in a few days. There’s fortunately no fracture.”
“Well, you’re in a pretty mess, at any rate.”