"Wilson, Wilson, it's not serious, is it? Say it's only a scratch!"
The doors of the house opened suddenly. M. d'Imblevalle was the first to appear, followed by the men-servants carrying candles.
"What is it?" cried the baron. "Is Mr. Wilson hurt?"
"Nothing; only a scratch," repeated Shears, endeavouring to delude himself into the belief.
Wilson was bleeding copiously and his face was deathly pale. Twenty minutes later, the doctor declared that the point of the knife had penetrated to within a quarter of an inch of the heart.
"A quarter of an inch! That Wilson was always a lucky dog!" said Shears, summing up the situation, in an envious tone.
"Lucky ... lucky...." grunted the doctor.
"Why, with his strong constitution, he'll be all right...."
"After six weeks in bed and two months' convalescence."
"No longer?"