Tudor surveyed him questioningly. "What happened to you?" he asked finally.
"Nothing!" Piers found his voice at last, it was low and shamed. "Nothing whatever! You—you—my God!—I thought you were dead, that's all."
"That all?" said Tudor. He put his hand up to his temple. There was a fair-sized lump there already, and it was swelling rapidly.
Piers nodded again. The deathly pallor had gone from his face, but he still avoided Tudor's eyes. He spoke again, below his breath, as if more to himself than to Tudor.
"You looked so horribly like—like—a man I once—saw killed."
"If you are wise, you will go home to bed," said Tudor gruffly.
Piers flashed a swift look at him. He stood hesitating. "You're not really hurt?" he questioned, after a moment.
"Thank you," said Tudor drily, "I am not."
He made no movement of reconciliation. Perhaps it was hardly to be expected of him. Piers made none either. He turned away in silence.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. Two o'clock! Tudor looked at it with a wry smile. It had been a lively quarter of an hour.