"Are you hurt?" asked a friendly voice.
The singer looked up to see a man standing hatless above him on the steps of the house. He strove to reply, but his tongue refused to act; he swayed while rolling waves of blackness encompassed him. He staggered blindly forward, then sank into darkness—and for him time was not.
When consciousness returned his eyes opened upon a glint of firelight, a shaded lamp on a table by which sat a man with bent head writing. It was a fine head, large and massive, the hair full and crisp. A rugged hand grasped the pen with decision, and there was no hesitation in its rapid movement.
The singer lay for a moment watching the bent head, when it suddenly turned, and a pair of remarkably keen grey eyes met his own.
"Ah, you are better! That's right!" Rising, the writer went to a cupboard against the wall, whence he brought a decanter and glass.
"I am a doctor," he said kindly. "Luckily I was handy, or you might have had a bad fall."
The singer tried to rise.
"Don't move for a few moments," continued the doctor, holding a glass to his lips. "Drink this, and you will soon be all right again."
The singer drank, and after a pause glanced inquiringly at his left hand, which lay bound up at his side.
"Only a sprain," said the doctor, answering his glance. "I saw how it happened. Scant thanks, eh?"