When the doctor was out of the room Roger laughed a little, examining the raw, inflamed fissure on his thumb.
"He's not the most cheery person in the world, is he? I've begun to imagine I've caught some terrible germ or other."
Thérèse smiled as she rose from her chair.
"I shouldn't worry, that is simply his way. I am sure he didn't mean to alarm you. I am just going to scribble a note before dinner, while that is being done," she added, and went into her own room, closing the door.
"That was a stroke of luck," whispered Roger. "She wasn't in the least offended, was she? She positively met me half-way."
"She really is a good sort, Roger," returned the old lady cautiously.
"I only wish we…"
She was unable to complete the sentence because of the doctor's re-entry. He approached the table near the fire and laid his leather case upon it, then carefully began to spread out various things—cotton-wool, gauze, scissors, a bottle of iodine. With mechanical precision he prepared a long strip of gauze, plodding steadily ahead, entirely concentrated on his occupation. His broad back was turned to Roger and also to the hall door. He did not even trouble to turn around when the door opened rather suddenly, and the voice of Chalmers, sounding somewhat strained, spoke.
"Beg pardon, miss, but here is Miss…"
He did not finish, for just then an apparition, startling in the extreme, pushed violently past him and into the room. It was a girl's figure, hatless, bedraggled, mudstained, her hair wild and drenched with rain, her eyes staring strangely, while one lividly pale cheek was defaced by a long smear of blood. Her breath came in gasps, laboured, terrible to hear, as though her heart threatened to burst its walls. She cast one swift, penetrating glance at the three occupants of the room, then a sort of hoarse scream came from her lips.
"Roger——!"