Tressidar looked up. Through the mist that swain before his smoke-rimmed eyes he saw Doris Greenwood.
CHAPTER XXIII
AT AULDHAIG ONCE MORE
"By Jove, Doris!" he exclaimed. "You here? I say, am I not in a horrible mess?"
"It might have been worse," replied the girl admiringly. "I saw you go, and—and—I thought—oh, I never expected to see you again."
"You never know your luck," said Tressidar. He could think of nothing else to say. The girl's concern on his behalf was more than sufficient compensation for the horrors of that five minutes facing death.
Someone handed him a glass of water. He drank the liquid with avidity and felt the better for it.
"I thought you were on leave, Doris," he remarked. "And you, too, are in a pretty pickle. You weren't hurt?"
The girl's face was grimed with smoke, her uniform soiled with fire and water. On the back of her left hand a rapidly rising white weal was visible.