“Phil—Mr. Quentin—what did you say, Dickey?” she cried, her haughty reserve fading like a flash.
“Don't you know?” he cried. “Almost killed last night by—by robbers. Slugged him nearly to a finish. Horrible gashes—eight stitches”—he was blurting out excitedly, but she clasped his arm convulsively and fairly dragged him to where Lady Saxondale stood.
“Oh, Dickey! They didn't kill—he won't die, will he? Why didn't you tell us before? Why didn't you telegraph?” she cried, and there was no wrath in the thumping, terrified little heart. Lady Saxondale turned quickly upon hearing the excited words of the girl who but a moment before had been the personification of reserve.
“What are you saying, Jane? Is there anything wrong?” she asked.
“Everything is wrong—Philip is dead!” cried Lady Jane, ready to faint. “Dickey says there are eight gashes, and that he is all dead! Why don't you tell us about it, Dickey?”
“He's all right—not dead at all. Robber's held him up last night during the storm, and if help hadn't come just when it did they'd have made short work of him. But I can't tell you about it here, you know. If you'll allow me I'll take a look for the baroness.”
“I'll go with you,” said Lady Jane, enthusiastically. “Dickey,” she went on as they hurried away, “I forgive you.”
“Forgive me for what?” he asked.
“For not coming to Ostend,” demurely.
“You really wanted me to come, did you, Jane?”