“Well, bad enough, my lad; you see, he has got concussion of the brain, and I daresay he will be ill for some time, but I do not anticipate anything serious. He must have a nurse.”
As soon as he had gone I sat and thought for a few minutes what I ought to do. Miss Carr was very kind and generous. If I asked her she would pay for a nurse; but no, I would not ask her without first consulting Hallett. He would help me in my difficulty, I felt sure, especially as it was probable that Linny was the girl poor Revitts had protected. But Hallett would not be back till evening, and then perhaps he would—no, he would be sure to come in.
I sat thinking, and the landlady came up, full of bewailings about her injured lodger, and in her homely way promised to come and wait on him from time to time. Then a bright thought occurred to me. I would write and tell Mary that Revitts was hurt, for I felt that she ought to know, and hastily taking pen and paper, I wrote her word that my friend was very ill, and asked her to tell me the address of some of his relations, that I might send them word. I did not forget to add a postscript, urging her to secrecy as to my whereabouts, for my dread of Mr Blakeford was as great as ever.
Seizing my opportunity when Revitts was more quiet, I slipped out and posted the letter, running back panting to find that a lady had come—so the landlady said—during my absence, and, rushing upstairs I stood staring with amazement on finding Linny in the room taking off her jacket and hat.
“You here, Linny?” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Why not?”
“Was it you, then, that poor Revitts helped last night?”
“Yes,” she said, with a shiver, and she turned white. “Yes, poor fellow. It was very brave of him, and I have come to help him in return.”
“But does—does Stephen know?”
“How can he,” she said meekly, “when he is at the office?”