“At Schwarenbach?”
“Yes. Oh, come! They are so ill.”
“I am sure Dr. Medlicott will do all he can for them,” said another voice, which John saw proceeded from a very tall, slight youth, with a fair, delicate, girlish face. “Had he not better get into the carriage and return to the hotel?”
“By all means.”
And John found himself without much volition lifted and helped into the carriage, where Cecil Evelyn scrambled up beside him, and put an arm round him.
“Poor old Monk, you are dead beat,” he said, as the carriage turned, the other two walking beside it. “Did you come that pace all the way down?”
“Only after the wood.”
“Well, ‘twas as plucky a thing as I ever saw. But is Skipjack so bad?”
“Dreadful! Light-headed all yesterday—horrid pain! But not so bad as Armine. If something ain’t done soon—he’ll die.”
“Poor little Brownlow! You’ve come to the right shop. Medlicott is first rate. Did you know it was we?”