“No, no, my lads,” cried Chris confusedly to the too willing crowd of fishermen about him; “I’m all right. I can walk. Who has my jacket and hat?”
“Here, what’s all this?” said another voice, as some one came pushing through the crowd.
“Only a bit of an accident, sir,” said the same strange voice. “Lady—friend of mine—too late for the boat—slipped off the end of the pier.”
“And Mr Chris Lisle saved her, sir.”
“Humph! Whose boat is that—Mr Glyddyr’s?”
“Yes, friend of mine, sir,” said the same strange voice. “There, don’t lose time, my lads. Quick, carry her to my hotel.”
“Can I be of any assistance?” said another voice.
“No, thank you. I can manage.”
“Nonsense, sir; the lady’s insensible. Asher, you’d better go with them to the hotel.”
Chris heard no more, but stood looking confusedly after the crowd following the woman he had saved, and as he began to recover himself a little more, he realised that the strange voice was that of the over-dressed man who had been in Glyddyr’s boat, and that Gartram and then Doctor Asher had come down the pier, and had gone back to the cliff road, while he, though he hardly realised the fact that it was he—so strangely confused he felt—was seated on one of the low stone mooring posts, with a rough fisherman’s arm about his waist, and the houses on the cliff and the boats in the harbour going round and round.