The sergeant was saying: “We must hurry,” and offering me his arm very courteously. “You will feel better when you get out in the air. And you will perhaps come out all right, and be able to go on to-morrow.”
The newcomer looked over the sergeant’s shoulder and saw me.
“Milicent!” he said, and clasped my hands.
It was a dear friend whom I had known in my girlhood days as Captain Warren.
“What is all this?” he asked quickly of the sergeant.
The sergeant was staggered, the little man in civilian’s clothes cringed, the old man who had offered to bet on me was in the majority.
“We must get out of this, commodore,” said the sergeant quickly, “the car is moving.”
The commodore got out with us, lifted me bodily off the train, and then, as we stood together, while the sergeant explained, supported me with his arm. I was too weak and ill to hear their talk. I think I was very nearly in a faint while I stood, or tried to stand upright beside him.
He told me afterward that I had been arrested by mistake for some famous political spy in petticoats. He answered for me, made himself responsible in every way, lifted me into a carriage, and told the driver where to take us. I was too nearly dead to listen to what he said. As the carriage whirled along I tried to sit up, to lift my head, but every time I attempted it I grew blind and sick.
“I would not try to sit up just yet, Mrs. Norman,” he said very kindly. “In a few minutes, perhaps, you can do so without risk, but I’d be very quiet now. In a little while I will hand you over to my wife—she is a wonderful nurse.”