“No, no, no. It is nothing—only a cut—nothing at all,” cried Joan passionately. “If I could know about father? Nothing else matters! Where is he? I must go to him.”
Leo’s hand was on her arm detainingly.
“Not yet—impossible yet,” he said. “The surgeons are there!”
“The surgeons?”
“Mr. Forest, and another, a friend of mine, going by this train—”
“Where?”
“They are with him.”
“Where?” repeated Joan, in agony.
Leonard would not give a direct answer. He doubted his own power to keep her back if she once knew whither to turn her steps, so wild in determination was the blanched face.
“He has been taken under shelter. They are seeing to him at once. There could be no delay.”