But Lestrange had already recovered himself, his right arm crossed with a scorched and bleeding bar where it had touched the glittering wheel, and the two young men were standing opposite each other in safety.
"You are not hurt?" was the first question.
"I? I ought to be, but I'm not. Come to a surgeon, Lestrange—Oh, you told me not to sit there!"
Lestrange glanced down at the surface-wound, then quickly back at the two pallid faces.
"Go on to your work, Peters," he directed. "I'm all right." And as the man slowly obeyed, "Now will you take my advice and come to the race with me, Ffrench?"
"Race! You'd race with that arm?"
"Yes. Are you coming with me?"
Shaken and tremulous, Dick passed a damp hand across his forehead.
"I think you're mad to stand talking here. Come to the office, for heaven's sake. And, I'd be ground up there, if you hadn't caught me," he looked toward the jaws sullenly shredding and reshredding a strip of cloth from his sleeve. "I'll do anything you want."
"Will you?" Lestrange flashed quickly. He flung back his head with the resolute setting of expression the other knew so well, his eyes brilliant with a resolve that took no heed of physical discomfort. "Then give me your word that you'll stick to your work here. That is my fear; that the change in you is just a mood you'll tire of some day. I want you to stand up to your work and not drop out disqualified."