The past was a sleep, and her life began.
Browning.
"Oh, indeed I think you must be mistaken," said Mr. Cranmer. "It can't be murder—it must be a sunstroke, or a fit."
"Queer sunstroke, to wait till five o'clock in the evening to strike, and queer fit to break a man's arm," said Jane, with some warmth. "I've seen apoplexy, sir, and I've seen epilepsy, and I've seen many and many a sunstroke; I know 'em when I see 'em. This here isn't nothing of that sort."
Claud approached, hastily cramming an eyeglass in one eye, and, stooping over the wounded man, without further ado pulled open his flannel shirt and laid a hand over his heart. His face grew grave.
"We must have help for him quickly," he said, in an alert, decided tone, which did not seem to match his dilletante exterior. "Where is the nearest place to run to?"
"Poole is quite close—the farmhouse yonder—I thought Miss Elaine had gone there," said Jane.
He just touched the arm which lay powerless, the coat-sleeve soaked in blood, and shook his head.
"You're right enough—it's no fit; it's a brutal assault," he said. "A robbery, I suppose. I'll run to the farm—who'll show me the way?"