Lucinda promised to get rid of Bel as soon as she could, and in return exacted the girl's promise to rest quietly and not worry. Then she shut herself out into the sitting-room, and had almost immediately to answer the door.
Bel's light motor-coat hung from his shoulders with empty sleeves, by which device he was able to make no parade of the fact that his right arm was in a sling. His features were drawn and grey, his speech slow with weariness, but his eyes keen, steady and (Lucinda made sure, looking sharply) wholly unsentimental; while his greeting, characteristically abrupt—"Still up, eh?"—was accompanied by ironical recognition of her unchanged evening costume.
"I waited up for you," Lucinda replied sufficiently to both words and look. "How's your arm?"
"Nothing to brag about, but no worse than I thought. A bit stiff and sore, that's all."
"You look fearfully tired, Bel. Won't you sit down?"
Irony again tinged his flying smile. "No, thanks. Won't stay but a minute. I promised, so here I am. But I'm dog-tired, and as soon as I've turned in my report, I'll cut along."
"Well?..."
"He's got one chance in a thousand to pull through. Say what you like about that young woman—she can shoot. Only one shot went wrong, merely smashed his shoulder. One of the others just missed his heart, the third drilled through his lungs. Wouldn't give a great deal for all the show he's got."
Grim watchfulness was rewarded by her slight start, a swift darkening of Lucinda's eyes, but no flinching, after an instant a slow nod, nothing more. "Nothing to say?" Bellamy demanded in pitiless humour.
"Thank you for letting me know."