'He is there,' I replied, nodding towards Edgecumbe, who seemed to be deeply interested in Bairnfather's Five Months at the Front.
'What!' he cried. 'Did—did——' The sentence died in an unintelligible mutter. He seemed to utter a name I could not catch. All the time I was watching him intently, and never shall I forget the look that passed over his face. He had been very pale before, but now his pallor was ghastly. For a moment he looked almost like a dead man, save for the gleam in his eyes. He was like one struggling with himself, struggling to obtain the mastery over some passion in his own heart.
It was some seconds before he spoke again, and then, in spite of my dislike for him, I could not help admiring him. The sinister gleam passed away from his eyes, and a look of seemingly great gladness came into his face. A second later, he had crossed the room to where Edgecumbe was.
'I say, Edgecumbe,' he said, 'was it you who did that for me?' and he held out his hand with frank heartiness.
'Did what?' asked Edgecumbe quietly.
'What—what Luscombe has been talking about. You heard, of course?'
For a moment Edgecumbe looked at him awkwardly. For the second time during that evening I had subjected him to an experience which he hated.
'I wish Luscombe wouldn't talk such rot,' he replied; 'after all, it was nothing.'
'Oh, but it was!' was Springfield's reply. 'Give me your hand, man,—you saved my life. The doctors told me afterwards I had a near shave, and—and—there, you understand, don't you?'
Seemingly he was overcome with emotion, and for some time he lapsed into silence. The others in the room were greatly moved, too—too moved to speak freely. There were none of those effusive congratulations which might seem natural under the circumstance. In a way the situation was dramatic, and we all felt it.