“Why should you die?” replied the distinguished surgeon. “But you have had a nasty fall.”
“Pluto shied at something,” answered his lordship; “mind they don't shoot him. I won't have him shot.”
Then, for a few moments, he lost consciousness.
When Orange arrived, the physicians were looking very grave, and telegrams had been despatched to all the young man's near relatives.
“He has called for you several times,” said Sir Thomas; “and,” he added, dropping his voice, “is there any lady who could meet ... the family? I fancy I caught a lady's name more than once. Could it have been——“
“Sara,” suggested Orange, to relieve his embarrassment.
“It certainly sounded like Sara.”
“Then I will send Lord Garrow a note—she is Lord Garrow's daughter—a lifelong friend. Is there no hope?”
“He may have a pretty good night.”