“Do you hear what I say?” cried Stratton fiercely.
“Yes. There is no occasion to fly out at me for wanting to be of service.”
“I want no help. I must be alone.”
“To go wandering off into a fit of delirium. There, I’ll call old mother Brade to fetch a surgeon.”
“You will not do so. I forbid it.”
“Exactly, but you are a patient now. There, don’t be idiotic. I can read you like a book.”
Stratton looked up at him sharply.
“You don’t want the doctor to see your wound and know how it came—there, don’t stare in that wild way—leave it to me. It was an accident. You were fooling about with a revolver. Cleaning it, say; and it went off. That’s all the doctor need know.”
“No one must know even that.”
“But your wound must be properly dressed.”