"O Alan!" she pleaded, bending over her brother. "Can't you hear me?"
Several minutes passed before he showed any symptoms of reviving; then he mumbled a few unintelligible words, and the lids drew back from his eyes.
"Dana!"—weakly. "He—took it—"
"What, Alan, dear?"
"The scarf—confounded imitation." He closed his eyes; opened them an instant later. "I'll be all right,"—with a smile. "Nothing serious. Don't mention the scarf, or anything about it. Just say—thief...." The lids sank over his eyes. "Imitation," he muttered. And fainted again.
... The Eurasian returned shortly, with the porter at his heels. The latter carried a basin of water and several bottles.
"If you'll allow me to attend to him," offered the proprietor, "it will spare you much unpleasantness."
Dana nodded and sank into a chair, shivering.
Nearly an hour passed before the doctor arrived. Alan had regained consciousness, but fainted during the examination. Dana, standing beside the bed in her negligee, waited nervously to hear the decision.
"I don't think you have any cause to be uneasy," said the doctor, after what seemed an interminable time. "The wound isn't serious—only the muscles and tissues punctured—nothing internal. But I'm going to suggest, rather, insist, that he go to a hospital."