Immediately under it had been written: "10 o'clock."
Further speculation on the matter was interrupted by Genevieve coming down-stairs. I stepped into the hall when I heard her, and she at once joined me. We went into the living-room.
Her beautiful eyes were round with wonder, her sweet face filled with concern; but before I entered into any explanations, I turned to her and held out my arms.
"First," I whispered, "I want to know whether it is real."
She caught her breath sharply; the color came quickly to her cheeks, a tender light to the blue eyes. She put her hands confidently into mine.
"What has happened to you?" she asked, standing away from me and staring with perplexed solicitude at the testimony of Stodger's barbarous surgery. I had forgotten all about the red-hot poker.
"A mere scratch—a nothing," I made light of it. "I 'll tell you all about it when the time comes. There are too many other things to be disposed of first."
"But—you have been wounded," she persisted, now thoroughly alarmed. And so I had to tell her about the night's adventure, which I did, for the most part shamefacedly enough.
It was a delight to watch the different expressions flit across her lovely countenance, to see them mingle and blend and give way to others—wonder, amazement, awe, horror, terror—I can't begin to name them all. A score of times she interrupted me, but it was always a welcome interruption.
"Stodger 's a trump," I concluded. "Think of him jumping up from a sound sleep and throwing himself into the thick of the fray, without one second's hesitation."