"Oh, she may pull through," said Archdeacon, who was helping in the distribution of sandwiches and coffee. "I hope to Heaven she will! But I'm afraid she'll be terribly disfigured. It was her face that got the worst of it. Have a sandwich, old chap? Gad, what a narrow shave you had!"
Hugh Blissmore, the novelist, burly and long-haired, was drinking black coffee. He was likewise smoking a cigarette, but Carleigh, in spite of his quest, never noticed it.
"Awful about Mrs. Darling, isn't it?" was the way he broached the topic.
"Awful!" exclaimed the writer—and was rather interrogative as well as exclamatory. "Oh, yes, I dare say! I've been thinking of the heroic side. Devilish fine of Sir Guy, don't you know! Sorry she's got to die, too! Heroism so bootless—and all that. But situation out of the ordinary. Oh, quite out of the ordinary."
"But it isn't certain that—" objected Carleigh.
"Certain?" the other interrupted, drawing his lungs full of smoke. "Of course it's certain. Hasn't a chance, poor lady. Not the smallest chance."
Sir Caryll's chin dropped and a grim, inarticulate sound came up from his throat.
"Heard anything of the cars from Cross Saddle?" the novelist inquired in turn. "Rotting uncomfortable messing about here, I say."
"Is that what's proposed?" asked the saddened one indifferently.
"Yes. Didn't you know? They took Mrs. Darling and Waldron over to the hall in one from here, and some fellows went off to Carlisle for the doctor-chaps in the other. They were to bring back some of Lord Dalgries's cars with them. They've been gone over an hour now—and no signs."