I admitted I had. I was forced to repeat my explanation to a brown-bearded, good-humoured inspector who came up, and who afterwards gave me his name as Pickering. The officer was most interested, therefore promising to call at the Tottenham Court Road police station later I gave him a card and took a hansom back to Bolton Street.
Chapter Eighteen.
Arouses Suspicions Regarding Sybil.
Ellice Winsloe believed me dead.
There was no doubt about that. And knowing what I now did, I intended that he should remain secure in that belief.
Domville had not returned, a fact which caused me the gravest apprehensions. I recollected that defiant voice in the night. Had he also fallen a victim?
Budd called in my doctor, who dressed the wound in my head and carefully bandaged it. He was curious to know the cause, but I merely explained that I had sustained a rather bad fall. Perhaps he attributed it to too much wine on the previous night—probably he did.
“You’ll have to rest for a day or two,” he said, “you had a nasty blow.”