The wretched man grasped his sister by the wrist, drew her to him, and whispered—"That is not true; it is the constable."
"No, Jonas. Do not be a fool. Do not make folk suspect evil," she answered in an undertone. "There is a surgeon staying at the Ship, and this is the gentleman who has come to assist you."
Mistrustfully, reluctantly, Jonas crept from his hiding place, and came behind his sister to the doorway, where he touched his forelock, looked about him suspiciously, and said—"Your servant, gentlemen. Sorry to trouble you; but I've met with an accident. The gun went off and sent a bullet into my arm. Be you a doctor, sir?" he asked, eyeing a stranger, who accompanied Iver.
"I am a surgeon; happily, now lodging at the Ship, and Mr. Verstage informed me of what had occurred, so I have come to offer my assistance."
Jonas was somewhat reassured, but his cunning eyes fixed on Iver observed that the young painter was looking around, in quest, doubtless, of Mehetabel.
"I must have hot water. Who will attend to me?" asked the surgeon.
"I will do what is necessary," said Mrs. Rocliffe.
"Will you go to bed?" asked the surgeon, "I can best look to you then."
Jonas shook his head. He would have the wound examined there, as he sat in his arm-chair.
Then came the inquiry from Iver—"Where is your wife, Jonas? I thought she had returned with you."