He shook his head. Then she heard him speak. He was looking
past her.
"I'm all right, Mrs. Strong. Don't mind me. Telephone for help."
"I have telephoned," cried Mrs. Strong, coming toward them quickly.
"Help is coming. Good heavens! You are bleeding! Were you hit?"
III
The question aroused Alix. She was aware of something wet and
sticky on the palm of her hand. She looked. It was covered with
blood. Then she remembered putting her hand against his cheek.
As if fascinated she stared for a second or two before her wits
returned. Mrs. Strong must not see that bloody hand. She would
know! Guiltily she clenched her fingers again and thrust her hand
behind her back. She shuddered at the feel of the moist, sticky
substance, and turned suddenly sick. Her one thought was to get to
her room where she could wash away the tell-tale evidence. Again
she heard him speaking, and hung on his words.
"Nothing but a scratch. I fell while chasing him. He got the start
of me. My overcoat bothered me. I got it off, but not in time.
It's out there somewhere. My rotten old leg is the worst. I twisted
it when I jumped over the fence. That's when I fell. Tripped over
some bushes or something. I was gaining on him. Up in the woods,
you see. He was making for the road above. Oh, if this leg of mine
was any good, I would have--" He broke off short to grip his knee
with both hands, his face twitching with pain.
Pages:
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244