Telford paid heed to nothing, not even the frightened child. He was as one distraught.
"Min," he wailed again, striving tremblingly to feel her pulse while cold drops came out on his forehead.
Min's face was as pallid as marble, save for one heavy bruise across the cheek and a cruel cut at the edge of the dark hair, from which the blood trickled down on the pillow.
She opened her eyes wonderingly at his call, looking up with a dazed, appealing expression of pain and dread. A low moan broke from her white lips. Telford sprang to his feet in a tumult of quivering joy.
"Min, dear," he said gently, "you have been hurt—not seriously, I hope. I must leave you for a minute while I run for help—I will not be long."
"Come back," said Min in a low but distinct tone.
He paused impatiently.
"It is of no use to get help," Min went on calmly. "I'm dying—I know it. Oh, my God!"
She pressed her hand to her side and writhed. Telford turned desperately to the door. Min raised her arm.
"Come here," she said resolutely.