“Phil!” cried Dorothy, standing in front of him, her wide eyes looking intently into his. “Are you hurt? Tell me!”
“Just a little cut in the arm or shoulder, I think. Doesn't amount to anything, I assure—”
“Come in the house at once, Philip Quentin!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Knowlton, will you ask Franz to telephone for Dr. Berier?” Then she saw the blood-stained hand and shuddered, turning her face away. “Oh, Phil!” she whispered.
“That pays for this cut and more, if necessary,” he said, in a low voice, as he walked at her side up the steps.
“Lean on me, Phil,” she said. “You must be faint.” He laughed merrily, and his eyes sparkled with something not akin to pain.
Dr. Berier came and closed the gash in his shoulder. An hour later he came downstairs, to find Mrs. Garrison and Dorothy alone.
“You were very brave, Mr. Quentin, but very foolhardy,” said Mrs. Garrison. “I hope from my heart the wound will give you little trouble.”
His good right hand closed over hers for an instant and then clasped Dorothy's warmly, lingeringly.
“You must let us hear from you to-morrow,” said she, softly.
“Expect me to fetch the message in person,” said he, and he was off down the steps. He did not look back, or he might have seen her standing on the veranda, her eyes following him till he was joined by another man at the corner below.