"Well," he said, "you're a doctor, so you ought to know," and he laughed an idiotic laugh. Then slowly he replaced the glove, while I cast the offending pin into the fireplace.
For the next three days we were inseparable, but on the fourth morning I received a message over the telephone from his rooms in Down Street, saying that he was feeling very unwell and asking me to call.
I went, and as soon as I saw him I felt inwardly satisfied.
"Not quite the thing, eh?" I exclaimed cheerily, feeling his pulse.
"No, d'Escombe. I feel horribly ill," the young fellow declared. "Look at my thumb; I believe I've poisoned it somehow."
It was red and inflamed, but, fortunately, owing to the alcohol he had consumed at the Savoy, he had no recollection of the slight pin-prick.
"It certainly looks a bit red," I said. "I'll go out to the chemist's and get something to dress it with."
Presently I bandaged it with a little harmless ointment, and assured him he would be better on the morrow.
Next day, however, I found a marked
