“No,” he said. “Get some water!”
She took the jug from the table and Satterthwaite splashed his face. Tremaine drew a difficult breath, opened his eyes, looked up and around him, dazed.
“Where am I?” he asked, feebly.
“You’re all right,” said Satterthwaite, bathing away the blood which trickled down his nose. “Don’t worry.”
Still half-stunned, the stricken man made an abortive, ill-coördinated effort to rise.
“Here, let me help you,” said Satterthwaite. “Get into this chair.” He lifted him up, supported him to a big armchair by the fireplace, deposited him in it.
“Thanks,” said Tremaine, feebly, “—extremely good of you.” He looked around him with vacant eyes. “Where am I? What happened?—I—I was in a street-car——”
Satterthwaite shot a swift glance of intelligence to the young woman who was, after all, his wife as well. She drew near, her breath held at a sudden possibility, her eyes searching the face of this man who but a moment before had so uncompromisingly claimed her. Had he——?
“Don’t worry about anything now,” said Satterthwaite, kindly. “You’ll feel better in a moment.”
His erstwhile adversary smiled up vacantly into his face.