"What has happened?" Rosa inquired feebly.
I considered my reply, and then, without turning towards her, I spoke
in a slow, matter-of-fact voice.
"Listen carefully to what I say. There has been a plot to--to do you
injury. But you are not hurt. You are, in fact, quite well--don't
imagine anything else. Sir Cyril Smart is here; he's hurt; Deschamps
has wounded him. Deschamps is harmless for the moment, but she may
recover and break out again. So I can't leave to get help. You must
go. You have fainted, but I am sure you can walk quite well. Go up the
stairs here, and walk along the hall till you come to the front door;
it is not fastened. Go out into the street, and bring back two
gendarmes--two, mind--and a cab, if you can. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but how--"
"Now, please go at once!" I insisted grimly and coldly. "We can talk
afterwards. Just do as you're told."
Cowed by the roughness of my tone, she rose and went. I heard her
light, hesitating step pass through the hall, and so out of the house.
In a few minutes I had done all that could be done for Sir Cyril, as
he lay there. The wound was deep, having regard to the small size of
the dagger, and I could only partially stop the extravasation of
blood, which was profuse. I doubted if he would recover. It was not
long, however, before he regained his senses. He spoke, and I remember
vividly now how pathetic to me was the wagging of his short gray beard
as his jaw moved.
"Foster," he said--"your name is Foster, isn't it? Where did you find
that dagger?"
"You must keep quiet," I said. "I have sent for assistance."
"Don't be a fool, man. You know I'm done for. Tell me how you got the
dagger."
So I told him.
"Ah!" he murmured. "It's my luck!" he sighed. Then in little detached
sentences, with many pauses, he began to relate a history of what
happened after Rosa and I had left him on the night of Sullivan's
reception. Much of it was incomprehensible to me; sometimes I could
not make out the words. But it seemed that he had followed us in his
carriage, had somehow met Rosa again, and then, in a sudden frenzy of
remorse, had attempted to kill himself with the dagger in the street.
His reason for this I did not gather. His coachman and footman had
taken him home, and the affair had been kept quiet.
Remorse for what? I burned to ask a hundred questions, but, fearing to
excite him, I shut my lips.
"You are in love with her?" he asked.
I nodded. It was a reply as abrupt as his demand. At that moment
Deschamps laughed quietly behind me. I turned round quickly, but she
lay still; though she had come to, the fire in her eyes was quenched,
and I anticipated no immediate difficulty with her.