And McBirney fell back, with closed eyelids, relieved, secure in Dick's strength. He lay, breathing quickly, a moment or two, and then opened his eyes.
"When can I get away, Dick?"
"We'll start to-morrow if you're strong enough."
"You needn't go, Dicky. I'll get a train. I'm——"
"None of that," said Marston. "Whither thou goest, for the present, I'll trot. But—Hope Stuart's anxious to—meet you."
"Who's Hope Stuart?"
Dick Marston hesitated, looked embarrassed. "Why—just a girl," he said. "But an uncommon sort of girl. She's done some—big things. Cousin of Don Emory's, you know. Came yesterday—just before your party. She—she's—well, she's different from the ruck of 'em—and she—said she'd like to meet you. I half promised she could."
McBirney flushed. "I can't see people, Dick," he threw back nervously. "They're kind—it's decent of them. I suppose, as long as the boy wasn't killed—" he stopped.
"Geoff, you've got some bizarre idea in your head about this episode, and I can't fathom it," spoke Dick Marston. "What do you think happened anyway?" he demanded. And stopped, horrified at the look on the other's face.
"Dick, you mean to be kind, but you're being cruel—as death," whispered Geoffrey McBirney. "I simply—can't bear any conversation—about that. I've got to cut loose and get off somewhere and—and—arrange."