“Just came in to get the hand dressed,” he said. “I’ll go back with you now.”
The doctor advised him not to, but Charles was not very susceptible to advice. He wished to be entirely casual and matter-of-fact, and Lexy tried to humor him. They stood together in the hall of the hospital while a nurse went to get him a bottle of lotion from the dispensary, and he talked in what he intended to be an offhand manner; but Lexy could see that he was in pain, and almost exhausted, and his hair was all on end.
Somehow, that was the thing she couldn’t bear—that his hair should be so ruffled. She could respect his determination to ignore the throbbing anguish of his hand, she would, if he liked, pretend that there was nothing at all tragic or unusual in the night’s adventure; but his hair—
The nurse returned with the bottle, gave him directions for its use, and told him sternly that he must come back the next morning for a dressing.
“All right!” he said impatiently. “Come on, Lexy!”
They got into Joe’s cab together, and off they went.
“What happened to your hand?” inquired Lexy, as if it didn’t much matter.
“Knife through it,” he answered. “You see, I held the old fellow, to give Mrs. Quelton a chance to get away. When I thought it was all right, I gave him a shove backward, and started to climb over the balcony; and he jabbed a knife through my hand. That’s what kept me so long—I couldn’t get it out; and after I did, I—rested for a while. Then I started for Wyngate, and I met Joe coming back to look for me. He said he’d landed Mrs. Quelton all right. So that’s all!”
Lexy was silent for a moment.
“Of course you didn’t know it wasn’t Mrs. Quelton,” she said. “It was Caroline all the time.”