“Not at all,” I answered. “I once received a blow on the head by the kick of a horse, but it was at the side.”
“Ah, perhaps this was a blow in infancy, and you don’t recollect it.”
Then, as he exchanged a strange look with the young man who stood eager and anxious at his side, his quick eyes suddenly fell upon the broken arm of the statue.
“Why, what’s this?” he cried, a sudden light apparently dawning upon him. “Look here, there’s blood and hair upon this marble finger. You’ve evidently struck your head against it in passing, and so violently as to break the marble. See!”
I looked, and there, sure enough upon the outstretched index-finger of the marble hand was a trace of blood, to which two or three hairs still clung.
“We’ve solved the mystery!” he cried. “I must dress your wound, and then, my dear sir, you must rest—rest. It will do your head good, you know.”
“But I was struck down last night by a man named Hickman in his rooms at Chelsea. He attempted to murder me.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, as though intentionally humouring me. “We’ve heard all about that. But come with me upstairs and let me dress your wound at once. Gill,” he added, turning to the servant, “get me some lukewarm water at once.”
Then he took my arm and led me upstairs to a well-fitted dressing-room, where he fussily washed and bandaged my head, while I sat silent, dazed, and wondering.