Reggie ran upstairs. The light was on in the hall, but on the landing, in the shadow, he stumbled over something soft. He ran his hand along the wall for a switch and found it. What he saw was Sylvia Sheridan lying with blood upon her face.
“It’s all right. You’ve only knocked out your mistress,” he called over the stairs.
“Oh, my God!” the housekeeper gasped. “The poker on her poor head! Oh, sir, she’s not dead, is she?”
“Not a bit. Come along, where’s her room?” Reggie picked her up.
The man from the car was at his elbow. “Thank you, I’ll do that,” he said.
“Why, it’s Mr. Woodcote. Fancy that!” Reggie smiled. “But why should the dramatist carry the leading lady?”
“I’m her husband,” said Woodcote fiercely. “Any objection, Mr. Fortune?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Smith. I beg pardon, Mr. Woodcote. But you’ll want me, you know. If it’s only to sew her up.”
He bore the lady off to her bedroom.
* * * * * *