“I’ll trot down and fetch Knatchbull,” whispered Uncle Luke.
“No.”
The negative came from Leslie, who was lying back with his eyes closed, and it was so decisive that the brothers paused.
At that moment Liza entered the room.
“She isn’t up-stairs, sir. Ow!”
The girl had caught sight of Leslie’s ghastly face, and she uttered an excited howl and thrust her fingers into her ears.
Leslie looked up at George Vine vacantly for a moment, and then light seemed to come to his clouded brain, and his lips moved.
“Say it again,” said Vine, bending over him.
“Send—her—away,” whispered the injured man.
“Yes, of course. Liza, go and wait—no; get a basin of water, sponge, and towel, and bring them when I ring.”