He pushed Stuart gently into a chair near at hand, and, while he spoke, he deftly cut away the slight tennis sleeve from the wounded limb with a pair of scissors taken from his pocket.
“I can’t quite remember,” Stuart replied, speaking with an effort, and passing his left hand over his eyes. “I came an awful cropper, I know, and must have banged my head. Is the arm broken? If so, you had better send for Metcalf and have it set.”
The butler was moving away; but Sir Douglas stopped him.
“There is no need to send to the village—I can manage this. Go up to my room and send down my man; it is not the first time he has helped me in this sort of thing.”
Stuart lay back in his chair; he was still feeling faint and weak. He caught Sir Douglas’ eye, and smiled a little.
“I feel rather like what the boys used to call a ‘jolly duffer,’” he said, slowly. “I can’t think what made me so stupid; I don’t usually fall about in this way. I wonder how long I was insensible—and I have never thanked you for helping me.” Stuart was gradually recovering himself, and woke to the fact that this was a stranger. “I beg your pardon.”
“It is granted, Cousin Stuart.”
Stuart looked mystified, and then said, suddenly putting out his left hand:
“You are Douglas Gerant; I am very glad to see you.”
Sir Douglas grasped the hand.