"Has he been struck down?" faltered George Vine, with the thought of his old friend rushing to his mind. "No, no. Don't talk. Here, your handkerchief, man," said Luke, who was far the more matter-of-fact. "A fall. Head cut. Slip on the cliff, I suppose, and he has come here for help." Taking the handkerchief passed to him by his brother, he rapidly bound it round the place where a deep cut was slowly swelling, while George Vine dragged sharply at the bell and then ran to the door and called, "Louise! Louise." Liza came hurrying into the hall, round-eyed and startled. "Where is your mistress?" cried Vine. "Miss Louise, sir? Isn't she there?" "No. Go up to her room and fetch her. Perhaps she is with Miss Vine." "I'll go and see, sir," said the girl wonderingly; and she ran up-stairs. "Help me to get him on the sofa, George," said Uncle Luke; and together they placed the injured man with his head resting on a cushion. "Now, then, I think we had better have Knatchbull. He must have had a nasty fall. Send your girl; or no, I'll go myself." "No," said Leslie feebly; "don't go." "Ah! that's better. You heard what I said?" "Yes; what you said." It was a feeble whisper, and as the brothers bent over the injured man, they could see that he was gazing wildly at them with a face full of horror and despair. "I'll trot down and fetch Knatchbull," whispered Uncle Luke. "No." The negative came from Leslie, who was lying back with his eyes closed, and it was so decisive that the brothers paused. At that moment Liza entered the room. "She isn't up-stairs, sir. Ow!" The girl had caught sight of Leslie's ghastly face, and she uttered an excited howl and thrust her fingers into her ears. Leslie looked up at George Vine vacantly for a moment, and then light seemed to come to his clouded brain, and his lips moved. "Say it again," said Vine, bending over him. "Send--her--away," whispered the injured man. "Yes, of course. Liza, go and wait--no; get a basin of water, sponge, and towel, and bring them when I ring." The girl looked at him wildly, but she had not heard his words; and Uncle Luke put an end to the difficulty by taking her arm and leading her into the hall. "Go and get sponge and basin. Mr Leslie has fallen and hurt himself. Now, don't be stupid. You needn't cry." The girl snatched her arm away and ran through the baize door. "Just like a woman!" muttered Uncle Luke as he went back; "no use when she's wanted. Well, how is he?" Leslie heard the whisper, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of recognition. "Better," he whispered. "Faint--water." George Vine opened the cellarette, and gave him a little brandy, whose reviving power proved wonderful. But after heaving a deep sigh, he lay back with his forehead puckered. "Hadn't I better fetch Knatchbull, my lad?" said Uncle Luke gruffly, but with a kindly ring in his voice. "Cut on the back of your head. He'd soon patch it up."