Chapter Thirty Five.
Dead or Alive?
As Jerry rushed into Lacey’s room, it was with the full expectation of seeing the master for whom he had begun to feel a warm respect stretched, face downward, upon the carpet; but the place was vacant, and, panting and trembling, he ran on to where the heavy curtain draped the bedroom door, swung it aside, and rushed in—there to see that the lieutenant, in shirt and trousers, had fallen upon the bed, from which he was now evidently writhing and struggling to the floor.
Jerry was a man of resource. He had not been servant and valet to gentlemen for years without picking up a great deal—nursing being one of his accomplishments.
“Badly, perhaps fatally, wounded,” he thought, “and immediate aid might be invaluable;” so, with this idea uppermost, he flung himself upon the young officer just as his feet touched the carpet, stooped down, and, by a clever quick motion, seized him round the knees, lifted his legs, and threw him on his back.
“Oh, how could you—how could you?” he cried, as he leant over him, pressing him down with his head on the pillow, and searched him wildly with his eyes, and then with one hand, for the wound.
“Do you hear?” he half-whimpered. “How could you? Oh, Mr Lacey, sir, how could you?”
The young officer’s eyes looked fixed and staring, his face was white and drawn, and his mind was evidently confused and wandering. For the first few moments he struggled violently; then he lay back panting with his lips apart, while Jerry went on excitedly searching for the wound, but without success.
Then he turned his eyes to the floor, looking about in all directions for the pistol, then about the bed, which had not been turned down, but without avail; and his eyes sought those of the young man again as he held him, and with one hand felt for the pulsation at the heart.
“What’s matter?” said Lacey, thickly.