He became almost childish—and his memory was not as good as it should be.
On the sixth night after his attack I paid my evening visit early. The nurse was asleep and Mrs. Crosswell was in charge. If you had watched me closely that evening you would have noticed a little hypodermic syringe in my left hand as I went to examine my patient.
He was half asleep, and as I felt his pulse I sent his wife into the next room for some small thing. While she was away the point of the syringe found its way into the arm of the semi-conscious man, and the syringe was emptied. He started up in bed, and his wife hurried back on hearing him shout.
"What is the matter?" she breathlessly exclaimed.
"It's nothing, my dear lady," I said calmly, although my heart was beating fast—too fast—and a sudden fear seemed to clutch it; if this woman found out, and told all she knew, there was risk—serious risk.
"He's stuck something into me. What is it—oh, what has he done?" moaned the invalid.
"Have you done anything, Dr. d'Escombe?"
"Simply ordinary treatment, my dear lady.
