“Well, what of that?” he demanded lazily, looking up at the canopy of the bed. “Your statement, you know, has not the attribute of novelty.”
As Saint-Ermay threw up his arm the flood of lace fell away from his right wrist and revealed to Gilbert’s notice the fact that the wrist itself was enveloped in a bandage of considerable extent, whose surface was flecked with two little spots of crimson.
“Ah, you concede that!” he said quietly, and added: “What have you done to your arm?”
Louis reddened perceptibly, and immediately returned the injured member to its hiding-place beneath the bedclothes. “It is nothing,” he responded hastily, “a mere scratch.”
“A scratch?” repeated the Marquis, setting down his cup. “But with what did you inflict one of that length?”
His question was followed by a moment’s silence, which it is possible that Saint-Ermay utilised in searching for a plausible explanation.
“It . . . the fact is, I did not do it myself,” he admitted finally. “Will you have some more chocolate, Gilbert?”
But the Marquis’ curiosity was piqued by the presence in the speaker’s tone of some concealed emotion other than embarrassment.
“Thank you, no. It was an accident, then, I hope? You have not been set upon in the streets, or anything of the sort?”
Louis shook his head. “It is nothing worth distressing yourself about, I assure you.”