“I’m better now,” he said, passing his hand gropingly across his brow. Then, as he removed it, he stared stupidly at the blood upon his fingers. “What happened?” he asked, weakly. “How did I get here? I was in a street-car—was there an accident?—I remember the street-car——”
“You’ll remember all about it presently,” Satterthwaite assured him, watching him narrowly with critical eyes.
“I suppose you brought me here,” he continued in his dazed voice. “Very kind of you—I’m much obliged.” He looked round, perceived the young woman with the water-jug in her hand, and smiled feebly. “Your wife, I presume?—I’m very sorry, madam,” he added, politely, “to put you to so much inconvenience.”
She stared at him for a moment as though suspecting his sincerity, and then turned away her head, a wild expression in the eyes that sought Satterthwaite’s face. He signalled back discretion.
“Here’s your coat,” he said, holding it out. “Let me help you on with it.”
Tremaine gazed at it, obviously puzzled, and then glanced down to his rolled-back shirt-sleeves.
“Was there a row, then?” he asked, mystified. “A fight?”
“There was a little trouble,” conceded Satterthwaite.
“And you took me out of it, I suppose?” he said, with genuine gratitude. “I am exceedingly obliged to you, sir—going to this bother for a complete stranger.”