“Jake, are you hurt?” he cried. But Benson did not answer him. Kneeling down, he strove to raise his head. He jerked away his hand with a startled cry of dismay. There was blood upon it; for as he fell, Benson's head had come in contact with the sharp edge of the bottom step.
Gibbs glanced about him helplessly. He had not strength sufficient to lift him. Then he thought of Andrew, who must be somewhere about, and he shouted his name; but his voice echoed emptily through the silent house. He was not answered. He glanced again at Benson, and then leaving him, ran down the hall and through the diningroom to the back of the house. In the kitchen he found Andrew asleep in his chair. He shook him roughly by the arm.
“Come, wake up!” he cried. “Mr. Benson's had a fall!”
The man stirred sleepily, and opened his eyes.
“What's that you say, sir?” he asked.
“Jake's stumbled on the stairs, you fool—come with me!” he shrieked.
But when they reached the hall, they found that Benson had recovered consciousness, and was sitting up with a dazed expression on his face.
“How did it happen?” he asked of Gibbs.
“You slipped on the rug, and you got a nasty fall,” said Gibbs.
Benson put his hand to his head, but took it away quickly.