so I rushed downstairs for the brandy. I had been delayed too long, however, for as I reached the hall the chair containing the injured man was carried up the front stairs by the waiters, the man Rowe still being in attendance, most kind and sympathetic.
"Too late, d'Escombe," said Featherson with a sickly smile, and then turning to his carriers, "Right up to my room—Number 81—and thank you so much for your kindness, sir," he continued, turning to the American. "I shall be quite all right now."
"I guess I'll come up with you, and see you put all O.K.," answered the other. "I reckon I know some about sprains—and bullet wounds," he added with a side wink at me.
"I really could not trouble you. My daughter can do all that is necessary. She knows exactly how to fix me up," said Featherson, with an air which said very distinctly "Stand off."
"Very well. If you won't have me, you won't. I'll look in and see you in the forenoon," the American said, and as he walked away I felt that he knew he was temporarily repulsed.
"Come on, boy," said the injured man to me, and in a few moments we three—he, Ella
