"Not there!" he gasped. "In this chair; his face—I must see his face!"
Mason, still clasping his inanimate burden, laughed with a snarl.
"Stop that," he roared. "Pull yourself together. Get some brandy. I've done my work. If you can't do yours, let me finish it."
"Oh, just a moment! Give me time! I hate the sight of blood. Get a towel. Bind it round his neck. His clothes! They will be saturated. And wipe his face. I must see his face."
Grenier was hysterical; he had the highly strung nervous system of a girl where deeds of bloodshed were concerned. While Mason obeyed his instructions he pressed his hands over his eyes.
"Bring some brandy, white-liver. Do you want me to do everything?"
This gruff order awoke Grenier to trembling action. He went to a cupboard and procured a bottle. Mason, having placed Anson in a chair and steadied his head against the wall, seized half a tumblerful of the neat spirit and drank it with gusto. The other, gradually recovering his self-control, was satisfied with a less potential draught.
"It will be dark soon," growled Mason. "We must undress him first, you said."
"Yes. If his clothes are not blood-stained."
"Rot! He must go into the water naked in any case. The idea is your own."