"An old wound," he said, with a shame-faced laugh.
She put her gloved hand swiftly on his to stay his operations.
"No, tell me!" she said. "What is it—really? How was it done?"
"You will never get him to tell you that," laughed Bertie Richmond. "You had better ask Fisher."
"Oh, rats!" cried Charlie vehemently. "Fisher, I'll break your head with this racquet if you give my show away. Come along! I believe the moon has contracted a romantic habit of rising over the sea when the sun sets. Let's go and——"
"I'll tell you, Molly," broke in Bertie, linking a firm arm in Charlie's to keep him quiet. "He can't break his host's head, you know. It's a scald, eh, Charlie? He got it in the engine-room of the Andover one night in the autumn. You were on board, you know. Help me to hold him, Fisher! He's getting restive. But I thought you knew all about it, Molly. You told me so."
"Oh, I didn't know—this!" the girl said. "How could I? I never guessed—this!"
Her three listeners were all surprised by the tragic note in her voice. There was a momentary silence. Then Charlie made a fierce attempt to wrest himself free.
"You infernal idiots!" he exclaimed violently. "Fisher, if you interfere with me any more I—I'll punch your head! Bertie, don't be such a fool!"
He shook them off with an angry effort. Fisher laughed quietly.