It was a plant!--an infamous conspiracy.
He came closer. Not a boy, after all. A young man of thirty--perhaps
more. The brow and head were covered with bandages; the eyes were closed;
the bloodless mouth hung slightly open, with a look of pain. The
comeliness of the dark, slightly bearded face was not entirely disguised
by the dressings in which the head was swathed; and the chest and arms,
from which the bedclothes had been folded back, were finely, though
sparely, moulded. Melrose, whose life was spent among artistic objects
was not insensible to the young man's good looks, as they were visible
even under his bandages and in the dim light, and for the first time he
felt a slight stir of pity.
He left the room, beckoning to the night nurse.
"What's his name?"
"We took some cards from his pocket. I think, sir, the doctor put them
here for you to see."
The nurse went to the hall table and brought one.
"Claude Faversham, 5 Temple Buildings, E.C."
"Some young loafer, pretending to be a barrister," said Melrose
contemptuously. "What's he doing here--in May? This is not the tourist
season. What business had he to be here at all? I have no doubt whatever
that he was drunk, otherwise why should he have had an accident? Nobody
else ever had an accident on that hill. Why should he, eh? Why should he?
And how the deuce are we to get at his relations?"
The nurse could only reply that she had no ideas on the subject, and had
hardly spoken when the sound of wheels outside brought a look of relief
to her face.
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