"I say, what a horrid-looking thing! Let me see your wrist, may I? I think you'd better let me bind it up for you."
"Will you?" She held out her wrist obediently, and taking off the handkerchief which bound it he saw that it was really badly cut, the blood still dripping from the wound.
"Ah, quite a nasty gash—it would really do with a stitch or two." He hesitated, looking at her thoughtfully. "Miss Wayne, what's to be done? You can't ride home like that, and yet we can hardly leave your motor-bike on the roadside."
He paused a second, his wits at work. Then his face cleared.
"I know what we'll do," he said. "Round this corner is a cottage where a patient of mine lives. We'll go in there, dispatch her son to look after the bike till I patch you up, and then if you can't manage to ride home we'll think of some other arrangement."
Iris rose, gladly, from her lowly seat.
"That's splendid, Dr. Anstice. I'm sure I can ride home if you will stop this stupid bleeding."
"Good." He liked her pluck. "Jump into my car and we'll go and interview Mrs. Treble."
"What an odd name!"
"Yes, isn't it? And by a strange coincidence her maiden name was Bass!"