“What’s this? What’s the matter?” he demanded, tensely.
“Nothing to alarm you,” said Cantor. “Your chauffeur got burnt a little with firecrackers, that’s all.”
Hildegarde switched on more lights as her father and Cantor carried the man to a lounge. She could see that his hands were badly burnt, but what was more startling, more significant to her, was that his lips were broken and bleeding and blood dripped from a gash in his scalp, injuries not commonly sustained through carelessness with fireworks.
She peered at her father. Manifestly he was frightened. He seemed to be looking to Cantor in a peculiar manner, not as one looks to a casual guest who is assisting in a minor emergency. Hildegarde wondered at that look. The man jerked convulsively, struggled to sit up.
“Leggo!” he said, hoarsely. “Leggo!” Then he saw and recognized Cantor. “Good job—” he began, and then stopped suddenly, peering craftily at Hildegarde. “Good job it wasn’t anythin’ but a little skyrocket,” he finished.
Hildegarde was standing tense, white. “There’s blood on your coat,” she said, in a choked voice. “Where were you shooting fireworks?” she demanded, and looked from the chauffeur to her father. Her father was still looking at Cantor.
“Go to bed,” said von Essen, roughly. “You’re in the way here.”
“I would go if I were you, Miss von Essen. This isn’t a pleasant sight for you.”
“I don’t suppose that poor watchman in the ambulance was a pleasant sight, either,” she said, her eyes on the chauffeur. The man started erect.
“What’s that?... What you say?... What you mean?”