“A friend of mine!” she cried, in surprise. “Oh then it must have been Mrs. Banks. I think she is the only true friend I have in the world.”
“No, it is not Mrs. Banks; it is another woman in the great city of New York.”
“Not Mrs. Horton; she is no friend of mine!” cried Floy, who suspected the woman of having sent Otho Maury to her room that evening.
“Not Mrs. Horton,” he replied, and bent down to look at Otho.
“His heart beats faintly; you have not killed him, miss—more’s the pity, for he’s only a human serpent,” he added, under his breath.
“He’s alive, you say? Oh, how glad I am! I did not want his death on my soul, though I hate and fear him!” cried Floy.
“Give me some water and a towel, miss, and I’ll stanch the blood and see how bad the wound is,” added the detective.
She brought the desired things, and as he went to work, he said:
“I was educated for a surgeon, so I know how to fix him all right. It’s only a superficial wound through the side of his neck, and I can sew it up all right before he comes to himself.”
He brought out a tiny surgical-case from his coat-pocket and sewed up the cut, after which he bandaged it nicely.