"I know," intervened Claire, eager to spare him the effort of speech. "I saw. It was splendid of you, Mr. Brice! My brother and I are in your debt for more than we can ever hope to pay."
"Nonsense!" he protested. "I made a botch of the whole thing.
I ought—"
"No," denied Milo. "It was I who made a botch of it. I owe you not only my life but an apology. It was my blow, not the other man's, that knocked you out. I misunderstood, and—"
"That's all right!" declared Gavin. "In the dim light it's a miracle we didn't all of us slug the wrong men. I—"
He stopped. Claire had been working over something on a table behind him. Now she came forward with a cold compress for his abraded scalp. Skillfully, she applied it, her dainty fingers wondrously deft.
"Red Cross?" asked Brice, as she worked.
"Just a six-month nursing course, during the war," she said, modestly, adding: "I didn't get across."
"I'm sorry," said Gavin. "I mean, for the poor chaps who might have profited by such clever bandaging …. Yes, that's a very dull and heavy compliment. I know it. But—there's a lot of gratitude behind it. You've made this throbbing old head of mine feel ever so much better, Miss Standish."
Milo was looking bewilderedly from one to the other, as if trying to understand how this ill-clad man chanced to be on such terms of acquaintanceship with his fastidious little sister. Claire read his look of inquiry, and said:
"Mr. Brice found Bobby Burns, this afternoon, and brought him home to me. It was nice of him, wasn't it? For it took him ever so far out of his way."