It wouldn't stir; it was heavily encased in
something. Good heavens! now I knew! It was in a plaster cast.
The shock of the discovery taught me something further, namely, that my
head was liable to excruciating little throbs of pain. I raised a hand
to it. My forehead was swathed in bandages, like a turbaned Turk's.
Oh, to be sure, in the castle at Prezelay, as we were retreating up the
staircase, Schwartzmann had fired at me; but, then, hadn't that been a
pin prick, the merest scratch?
The name Prezelay served as a key to solve the puzzle. The whole
fantastic, incredible chain of happenings came back to me in a rush;
the gray car, the inn, the murder, the night in the castle,
Jean-Herve-Marie-Olivier.
"Dunny!" I heard myself quavering in a voice utterly unlike my own.
The figure in the chair started up and hurried toward me, and then
Dunny's hands were holding my hands, his eyes looking into mine.
"There, Dev, there! Take it easy," the familiar voice was soothing me.
"Hold on to me, my boy, You are safe now. You're all right!"
My safety, however, seemed of small importance for the time being.
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