"It's me, Harry. It's Kennedy. Don't you know me?"
This cry caused her to turn.
"It's a coward. Run."
Emily had heard the voice only once before, in that eventful ride to Hillsborough; but she would have known Harry Arnold instantly from his photograph. How broad-chested he was! How superb! Yet there was something feverish in his excitement now. He came toward her, raising his hat.
"I have to apologize for a slight acquaintance with that blackguard, which led me to refuse at first to credit his conduct. Otherwise I might have been of assistance earlier."
"Slight acquaintance? You owe me twelve hundred and by George you'll pay it," snarled Kennedy, moving away. Harry never turned.
"The boy has fainted. He must come up to the house."
The "cottage" in view, then, was the Arnold house. A carriage stood in front of the terrace at the head of the gravel drive which led up from the turnpike. Harry had probably just arrived home from an afternoon spin through the suburbs.
"Thank you, Mr. Arnold——" Emily stopped, but the mischief was out. Harry had lifted the unconscious boy tenderly in his strong arms and was carrying him up the drive. He turned and smiled, showing his beautiful teeth, but, seeing Emily's confusion, did not speak the words that were on his lips. Inside the house he called for Indigo.
"Some wine," he ordered.