For a while the man looked at it; then with a sudden cry of fear he shrank away. "No, no," he muttered, "not again."
Hugh hurriedly replaced the paper. "Bad break on my part, old bean; you evidently remember rather too well. It's quite all right," he continued reassuringly; "no one will hurt you." Then after a pause—"Is your name Hiram C. Potts?"
The man nodded his head doubtfully and muttered "Hiram Potts" once or twice, as if the words sounded familiar.
"Do you remember driving in a motor-car last night?" persisted Hugh.
But what little flash of remembrance had pierced the drug-clouded brain seemed to have passed; the man only stared dazedly at the speaker. Drummond tried him with a few more questions, but it was no use, and after a while he got up and moved towards the door.
"Don't you worry, old son," he said with a smile. "We'll have you jumping about like a two-year-old in a couple of days."
Then he paused: the man was evidently trying to say something. "What is it you want?" Hugh leant over the bed.
"Danger, danger." Faintly the words came, and then, with a sigh, he lay back exhausted.
With a grim smile Drummond watched the motionless figure.
"I'm afraid," he said half aloud, "that you're rather like your medical attendant. Your only contribution to the sphere of pure knowledge is something I know already."
