"It feels messy," I admitted. "Shut the door and let's go up to the study."
What Billy doesn't know about knife-wounds may be justly regarded as superfluous information. He quickly but carefully relieved me of my dress-clothes, and then, slitting up the rest with a pair of scissors, brought the injured portion of my anatomy to light. It consisted of an ugly-looking cut just on the outside of my arm, from which the blood was slowly welling in kind of languid spurts. A brief examination, however, removed the frown from his brow.
"It's nothing," he said; "only a small vein. I'll dodge that up in no time."
"Don't speak in such a disappointed way, Billy," I retorted. "I'm quite satisfied."
He grinned, and, taking out his handkerchief, tied it tightly round my arm. Then, going into the bedroom, he emerged a moment later with a basin of warm water, a clean towel, and a bottle of listerine.
"You seem to know your way about," I observed.
"I ought to," he answered. "I've been waiting here for you the last three hours. Now look out for squalls—I may hurt you a bit."
Ten minutes later, bandaged up in the best professional style, I was lying languidly on the sofa, while Billy mixed a couple of brandies-and-sodas to relieve our respective fatigue.
"You're in the chair," I said, accepting the drink which he handed across. "Get your yarn off first and then I'll talk."
Billy shrugged his shoulders. "My bit won't take long," he said. "I only got your note at nine o'clock to-night. Those Maxwell people sent for me to come up to Liverpool, and when I got there, they kept me hanging about for twenty-four hours, and then refused to give me the job."