"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 passing, 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, pronounced 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 assume 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." "Yes, yes, I know," he answered, patting me on the shoulder with a familiarity curious when I reflected that I had never set eyes upon him till half an hour before. "But take my advice, and don't reflect upon it." "If you know, then perhaps you'll kindly give me some explanation?" I said, resenting his manner. He was treating me as he would a child. "I only know what you've told me," he responded. "It's a strange story, certainly. But don't you think that it is, greater part of it, imagination?"