The girl looked at him wildly, but she had not heard his words; and Uncle Luke put an end to the difficulty by taking her arm and leading her into the hall.
“Go and get sponge and basin. Mr Leslie has fallen and hurt himself. Now, don’t be stupid. You needn’t cry.”
The girl snatched her arm away and ran through the baize door.
“Just like a woman!” muttered Uncle Luke as he went back; “no use when she’s wanted. Well, how is he?”
Leslie heard the whisper, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of recognition.
“Better,” he whispered. “Faint—water.”
George Vine opened the cellarette, and gave him a little brandy, whose reviving power proved wonderful. But after heaving a deep sigh, he lay back with his forehead puckered.
“Hadn’t I better fetch Knatchbull, my lad?” said Uncle Luke gruffly, but with a kindly ring in his voice. “Cut on the back of your head. He’d soon patch it up.”
“No. Better soon,” said Leslie in a low voice. “Let me think.”
“Be on the look-out,” whispered Uncle Luke to his brother. “Better not let Louise come in.”