"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.

"At Chelsea!" repeated the stranger. "In London?"

"In London."

"Well, that's very curious," he remarked. Then, turning to the servant, said--

"Gill, go and fetch Doctor Britten at once. Say nothing of this to any one in the house."

"Yes, sir," answered the servant, who instantly withdrew.

"I suppose you've sent for the doctor to bandage my head?" I remarked cynically. "I'm perfectly competent to do that if you'll kindly oblige me with a little warm water, a sponge, and some clean old linen."

"No, no," he urged. "Wait in patience until Britten comes. He'll be here in a moment. I saw him returning home only ten minutes ago."

"But how came I here?" I demanded.

He hesitated, regarding me with evident distrust, mingled with considerable alarm.

"I--I really don't know," he responded lamely.

"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."

"And so would you be," I said, "if you had been entrapped as I've been."

His face seemed bloodless, as though the discovery of my presence there had caused him the utmost alarm. He fidgeted and glanced eagerly now and then towards the door.

At last I distinguished advancing footsteps, and there entered an elderly, dapper, white-bearded little man, whose general demeanour and b.u.t.toned frock-coat gave him the air of the medical pract.i.tioner. He held his silk hat in his hand, and as he placed it down I noticed that his stethoscope reposed cross-wise in the lining.

"My dear sir! My dear sir! What's this?" he began fussily. "Come, sit down;" and he drew me towards a chair, and seated himself upon the edge of another close to me.

"My head has been injured. Examine for yourself."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, first regarding me fixedly, and then rising and examining my head. "A nasty scalp-wound, I see." He felt it carefully with his fingers, causing me a sharp twinge of pain. "No fracture, no fracture. That's fortunate--very fortunate. It's not serious at all, I'm glad to tell you--nothing serious. How did it occur?"

"I was struck, that's all I remember," I answered, turning to him and looking into his face.

"With something sharp-pointed, evidently;" and he looked extremely puzzled.

"I don't know what it was."

"From what I can feel, I think you must have had a previous blow upon the same spot at some time or another. Do you remember it?"

"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 pa.s.sing, 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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

MYSTERY INEXPLICABLE.

Britten was, I immediately detected, one of those men whose well-feigned air of fussy sympathy, whose unruffled good humour, and whose quick perception enabled him to gauge to a nicety his patient's character, and to thus ingratiate himself. By the younger people he was, no doubt, p.r.o.nounced clever on account of his age and known experience, while old ladies--those whose very life depended upon regularly seeing the doctor--declared him to be "such a dear, kind man." Upon the family doctor's manner alone depends the extent of his popularity and the size of his practice. The most ignorant charlatan who ever held a diploma can acquire a wide practice if he is only shrewd enough to humour his patients, to take pains to feign the deepest interest in every case, and a.s.sume an outward show of superior knowledge. In medicine be the man ever so clever, if he has no tact with his patients his surgery bell will remain for ever silent.

Dr Britten was a shrewd old fellow; a bit of a bungler, who made up for all defects by that constant good humour which people like in a medical man. "Don't worry, my dear sir; don't worry," he urged, when he had finished. "Rest well, and you'll be right again very soon."

"But the events of last night?" I said. "A man made a dastardly attempt upon my life, and I intend to secure his arrest."