His hands ceased their operations as if checked by a sudden paralysis.
“On the way here?” he cried incredulously. “Why———”
“He is coming,” she said fiercely. “I sent for him. Don't stop now, be quick! You know what to do. Stanch the flow of blood. Do something, man! You have seen men with mortal wounds, and this man must be saved!”
He worked swiftly, deftly, for he did know what to do. He had worked over men before with wounds in their breasts, and he had seen them through the shadow of death. But he could not help thinking, as he now worked, that he was never known to miss a shilling at thirty paces.
She was speaking. Her voice was low, with a persistent note of accusation in it.
“It was an accident, do you understand? You did not shoot to kill him. The world shall never know the truth, unless he dies, and that is not to happen. You are safe. The law cannot touch you, for I shall never speak. This is between you and me. Do you understand?”
He glanced at her set, rigid face.
“Yes. It was an accident. And this is between you and me. We shall settle it later on. Now I see you as you are—as Yvonne. I—wonder———” His hand shook with a sudden spasm of indecision. He had again caught that baffling look in her dark eyes.
“Attend!” she cried, and he bent to the task again. “He is not going to die. It would be too cruel if he were to die now and miss all the joy of victory over you, his lifelong foe. He———”
The door opened behind them and they looked up to see the breathless Hindu. He came straight to the woman.