Jack turned around, and when he saw Victor Nevill bending over him he looked first confused and then pleasurably surprised.
"Hello, old chap," he said. "Wait a bit, will you?"
"You've led me a chase," Nevill whispered in a low voice. "I want to talk to you. Important!"
"All right," Jack replied. "I'll be through in a couple of minutes."
He wondered if it could have anything to do with Diane, as he set to work on the injured man. With deft fingers he bathed the cut, staunched the blood, and applied a piece of plaster handed to him by a bystander; over it he placed the dry half of his handkerchief.
"You'll do now," he said. "It's not a deep cut."
With assistance the man got to his feet. The shock had sobered him, and he was pretty steady. He pulled his cap on his head, and winced with pain as it stirred the bandage.
"Where's the cowardly rat what hit me?" he demanded.
"Never you mind about 'im," put in the proprietor of the club—a very fat man with a ponderous watch-chain. "While the excitement was on 'e 'ooked it. You be off, too—I don't want any more rowing." Sinking his voice to a faint whisper, he added: "You'd be worse off than the rest of us, 'Awker, should the police 'appen to come."
"Yes, go home, my good fellow," urged Jack. "You look ill; and what you need is rest. You'll be all right in the morning."