The answer came at last,—a question:
"To what injuries do you allude, Mr. Ross?"
Even in the twilight they could see the sudden flush of the Scotchman's cheek. He was a blunt fellow, but, as the senior, had been chosen spokesman for the three. The abrupt question staggered him. It was a second or two before he could collect himself.
"I mean the injuries at the fire," he replied.
This time, no answer whatever. It was growing too painful. Ross looked in bewilderment at the bandaged face, and again broke the silence:
"We hope you won't deny us the right to be of service, Mr. Hayne. If there is anything we can do that you need, or would like—" hesitatingly.
"You have nothing further to say?" asked the calm voice from the pillow.
"I—don't know what else we can say," faltered Ross, after an instant's pause.
The answer came, firm and prompt, but icily cool:
"Then there is nothing that you can do."