her a low bow.

"Your servant, madam," said he, "your servant Harry Foster."

She gazed at him, her eyes full of inquiry, but said nothing,
whereat the pretty gentleman plucked awkwardly at his ruffles
and wished himself elsewhere.

"I did not know, madam, that your husband was hurt."

"He is not my husband, sir," she answered, scarce knowing what
she said.

"Gadso!" he ejaculated. "Yet you ran away from him?"

Her cheeks grew crimson.

"The door, sir, is behind you."

"So, madam, is that thief the landlord," he made answer, no
whit abashed. "Come hither, you bladder of fat, the gentleman
is hurt."

Thus courteously summoned, the landlord shuffled forward, and
Mr. Foster begged Cynthia to allow him with the fellow's aid to
see to the gentleman's wound. Between them they laid Crispin
on a couch, and the town spark went to work with a dexterity
little to have been expected from his flippant exterior. He
dressed the wound, which was in the shoulder and not in itself
of a dangerous character, the loss of blood it being that had