“You’ve caught a chill,” cried Unity. She counseled home and bed at once.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “It was all I could do to get here. Let me rest for a couple of hours. I shall be all right. I’m not going to bed,” he declared with sudden irritability; “I’ve never gone to bed in the daytime in my life. I’ve never been ill, and I’m not going to be ill now. I’m only stiff and tired.”
“You’ll go to bed here right away,” said Herold.
John protested. Herold insisted.
“Those infernal clothes—you must get them off at once,” said he. John being physically weak, his natural obstinacy gave way. Unity saw the sense of the suggestion; but it was giving trouble.
“Not a bit,” said Herold. “There’s a spare bedroom. John can have mine, which is aired. Mrs. Ripley will see to it.”
He went out to give the necessary orders. Unity busied herself with unlacing and taking off the stiffened boots. Herold returned, beckoned to Unity, and whispered that he had telephoned for a doctor. Then he said to John:
“How are you feeling, dear old man?”
“My head’s queer, devilish queer. Something fell on it last night and knocked me out of time. It was raining, and I was sheltering under the cliff on the beach, the other side of the path, where you can see the lights of the house, when down came the thing. I must have recovered just before dawn; for I remember staggering about in a dazed way. I must have taken the road round the cliff, thinking it the upper road, and missed my footing and fallen down. I came to about nine this morning, on the rocks, the tide washing over my legs. I’m black and blue all over. Wonder I didn’t break my neck. But I’m tough.”
“Thank God you’re alive!” said Unity again.