In breathless haste I told him what had occurred.
“Good heavens!” he gasped. “Don’t alarm the ladies. Find the butler and get him to telephone for the doctor in secret. I’ll run in and look after him in the meantime,” he said, and hurried to the billiard-room.
I was not long in finding the butler, and quickly we went to the library and spoke to the doctor, who lived about five miles away. He was already in bed, but would, he said, motor over immediately.
On our return to the billiard-room we found, to our relief, that Mr. Blumenfeld had recovered consciousness. He was still lying upon the floor, Rayne having forced some brandy between his lips.
“He’s getting right again!” Rayne exclaimed to the white-haired old servant, and together we lifted our host on to the sofa.
He recovered quite rapidly, and presently he whispered weakly:
“I suppose it’s my heart! A doctor in Rome three years ago said it was rather weak.”
“I’m glad you’re better, my dear fellow,” said Rayne. “I was much worried about you. You were playing with Hargreave, and he alarmed me.”
“I’m cold,” our host said. “Will you shut that window.”