this man. That's one thing. Another is, how this--Brice, did
you say his name is?--happened to be Johnny-on-the-spot when
the other chap tried to knife me. And how you happen to know
him by name. He's dressed more like a day-laborer than like
any one you'd be likely to meet .... But all that can wait.
The thing now is to find how badly he's hurt."

They had reached the veranda, and Standish carried his burden
through an open doorway, which was blocked by a knot of
excitedly inquisitive servants. A sharp word from Standish
sent them whisperingly back to the kitchen regions. Milo laid
Brice down on a wicker couch in the broad, flagged hallway,
and ran his fingers over the bruised head.

Gavin could hear Claire, in a nearby room, telephoning.

"Hold on, there!" called Standish, as his sister gave the
operator a number. "Wait! As well as I can tell, at a
glance, there doesn't seem to be any fracture. He's just
knocked out. That's all. A mild concussion of the brain, I
should think. Don't call a doctor, unless it turns out to be
more serious. It's bad enough for the servants to be all
stirred up like this, and to blab--as they're certain to-
-without letting a doctor in on it, too. The less talk we
cause, the better."

Reluctantly, Claire came away from the telephone and
approached the couch.

"You're sure?" she asked, in doubt.