My headgear, when recovered, bore evidence that it had been worn on a militant heel; but when I had brought the torn edges together, I flattered myself that in the darkness it would look almost as good as new. And although the coat hung loosely upon me, and the stains of battle refused to yield to the brush, I was consoled by the thought that these departures from the rules of polite dress would add corroborative details and a livelier interest to my tale of Wharton Kendrick's undoing.
"Now, leave that bandage alone," commanded Miss Laura, as I raised my hand to complete my toilet by removing that badge of battle. "You have to wear it. And you have no idea how becoming it looks."
I submitted ruefully to this edict of petticoat tyranny, and Miss Kendrick rewarded me by escorting me to the door. She gave me her hand, and there was a look in her eyes that was near to carrying me off my feet as she said with the suspicion of a tremble in her voice:
"I hope you don't think we are not appreciating what you have done--and are doing."
"It is nothing," I said, looking into the magnetic depths of her eyes, until she dropped her glance to the floor, and blushed divinely.
"It is nothing," I repeated. Then bending, I touched my lips to her hand, and with no other word ran down the steps in a tumult of elation.
The Coleman house was alight as I rang the bell, and William T. Coleman himself appeared close on the heels of the suspicious servant who took in my card. He was able to recall the circumstances of our introduction as he gave me a cordial greeting and shook me warmly by the hand.
"I was in hopes Kendrick would come himself," he said; "but as he hasn't, I am glad he sent you."
"Mr. Kendrick didn't come because he couldn't come. He was badly hurt in to-night's riot."
"Kendrick hurt? How badly?"