“You are very good,” he murmured.
But he had noted the band of red velvet about Miss Imogene’s throat and Dorothea had caught the expression of comprehension that had passed over his face.
“He, thinks Cousin Imogene’s a Red String, too,” she thought, and then, “How do I know that she isn’t?”
With an effort Stanchfield rose and staggered toward the fireplace; but when Miss Ivory would have steadied him with a hand on his arm he winced.
“Not that arm,” he muttered; “it’s—it’s scratched a bit.”
“I’m sorry,” Miss Imogene said; “I shall have a look at it presently, but first of all we must get you some strengthening food.” They seated him in front of the fire, and he leaned back with a sigh of relief; but he seemed so weak that Miss Imogene looked at him anxiously.
“There is a flask in my room and glass of milk,” Miss Imogene spoke half to herself.
“Oh, pray don’t trouble,” Stanchfield faltered; and then, before their eyes, he fainted straight away.
In the silence that followed they could hear the low-toned murmur of men’s voices and, suddenly, the sound of a closing door far down the hall. Miss Imogene and Dorothea looked at each other apprehensively, for a moment.
“Lock it, after me, child,” Miss Imogene whispered, starting toward the door with an air of determination, “and don’t let any one in till I come back. I’ll only be a minute.”