I gave her the letter and she placed it in the safest, the most secret, place she knew,--her bosom. Then her eyes scanned me over. "Oh! sir," she cried, in sudden alarm, "you are hurt. You are bleeding." I put my hand to my cheek, but then I remembered I had already wiped away the few drops of blood from there with my handkerchief. "Your arm, sir," she pointed. "Oh!--just a scratch, Maisie." "Won't you let me bind it for you, sir, before you go?" she pleaded. "It isn't worth the trouble, Maisie." Tears came to those pretty eyes of hers; so, to please her, I consented. "All right," I cried, "but hurry, for I have no more business in here now than a thief would have." She did not understand my meaning, but she left me and was back in a moment with a basin of hot water, a sponge, balsam and bandages. I slipped off my coat and rolled up my sleeve, then, as Maisie's gentle fingers sponged away the congealed blood and soothed the throb, I began to discover, from the intense relief, how painful had been the hurt, mere superficial thing as it was. She poured on some balsam and bound up the cut; all gentleness, all tenderness, like a mother over her babe. "There is a little jag here, Maisie, that aches outrageously now that the other has been lulled to sleep." I pointed to my breast. She undid my shirt, and, as she surveyed the damage, she cried out in anxiety. It was a raw, jagged, angry-looking wound, but nothing to occasion concern. She dealt with it as she had done the other, then she drew the edges of the cut together, binding them in place with strips of sticking plaster. When it was all over, I slipped into my jacket, swung my knapsack across my shoulders, took my golf-bag under my left arm,--and I was ready. Maisie wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. "Never mind, little woman," I sympathised. "Must you really go away, sir?" she sobbed. "Yes!--I must. Good-bye, little girl." I kissed her on the trembling curve of her red, pouting lips, then I went down the stairs, leaving her weeping quietly on the landing. As I turned at the front door for one last look at the inside of the old home, which I might never see again, I saw the servants carrying Harry from the armoury. I could hear his voice swearing and complaining in almost healthy vigour, so I was pleasantly confirmed in what I already had surmised,--his hurt was as temporary as the flat of a good, trusty, highland broad-sword could make it. CHAPTER V Tommy Flynn, The Harlford Bruiser I hurried down the avenue to where it joined the dusty roadway. I stood for a few moments in indecision. To my left, down in the hollow, the way led through the village. To my right, it stretched far on the level until it narrowed to a grey point piercing a semi-circle of green; but I knew that miles beyond, at the end of that grey line, was the busy town of Grangeborough, with its thronging people, its railways and its steamships. That was the direction for me.