"And a little sweet oil, if you have it," added Emily; for the neck bandage had been torn away and the vitriol burn was bleeding from one of Kennedy's blows.
"This is Walter Riley," said Emily, at last recovering from her embarrassment, "Mr. Shagarach's clerk, who was assaulted about ten days ago."
She studied Harry's face as she bathed the tender part with the sweet oil and poor, sick-eyed Walter revived under the wine. But there was no expression other than one of surprise crossed with sympathy.
"And yourself, may I ask?"
"I am Miss Barlow."
Harry's astonishment reached a climax at this, but he was too well bred to display it.
"I am delighted to have you for my guest, Miss Barlow. It is unfortunate that my mother is not at home. We have both admired your efforts in behalf of Rob. And Miss March was just speaking of you."
By the time that Walter was ready to go home, Emily had fixed with feminine absoluteness her opinion about Harry's innocence.
But then she was under a heavy debt to Harry. He had rid her once for all of the impertinences of Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall.