"Is it broken or is it a sprain?" he asked peremptorily.
"I—I don't know. I think she's killed!" answered the boy brokenly.
Oliver was nearly fainting from sheer fright, as Dr. George could see for himself.
"Come along, boy," he said sharply, and he gathered together two or three necessaries from the surgery-table while he spoke.
Presently two figures plunged out into the pouring rain.
"Father's gone with the other Carew! What can be the matter? Perhaps Uncle John's killed, and they're going to make it up!" whispered the girls.
"You are sillies!" scornfully said Tony. "How can people make it up if they're dead?"
Ah, how, Tony? The time for that has gone by, indeed, boy!
Of the two figures that fled through the rain, the doctor reached the Tile House first. In a trice he pushed aside Euphemia and he was kneeling beside the motionless little figure; and, presently, when he had gently probed the little form and lifted one limb after another, he groaned under his breath. This little, tender, fair-headed thing, with the face that reminded him so startlingly of his dead Mother, was sorely injured; perhaps fatally so. As yet, he knew not.
Without a word, he cautiously lifted the unconscious Clary in his strong arms, and signed to Euphemia to lead the way.