“This is Mr. Stranleigh, who has met with an accident,” said Mrs. Armstrong to her daughter.
“Merely a trifle,” Stranleigh hastened to say, “but I find I cannot raise my left arm.”
“Is it broken?” asked the girl, with some anxiety.
“I don’t think so; I fancy the trouble is in the shoulder. A rifle bullet has passed through it.”
“A rifle bullet?” echoed the girl, in a voice of alarm. “How did that happen? But—never mind telling me now. The main thing is to attend to the wound. Let me help you off with your coat.”
Stranleigh stood up.
“No exertion, please,” commanded the girl. “Bring some warm water and a sponge,” she continued, turning to her mother.
She removed Stranleigh’s coat with a dexterity that aroused his admiration. The elder woman returned with dressings and sponge, which she placed on a chair. Stranleigh’s white shirt was stained with blood, and to this Miss Armstrong applied the warm water.
“I must sacrifice your linen,” she said calmly. “Please sit down again.”