"You saw, did you?" The girl stared at him miserably. "Because I was a little fool: because I was mad with him—because I loved him, and he called himself John Marston." She rose, and laughed a little wildly. "And then when Nigger really did bolt I was glad—glad: and when I saw him beside me, I could have sung for joy. I knew he’d come—and he did. And now I could kill myself." And staunch old David Dawlish—uncle by right of purchase with many sweets in years gone by, if not by blood—was still thinking it over when the door of her room banged upstairs. "A whisky and soda, Hubert," he remarked, as the latter joined him, "is clearly indicated." "We’ll have trouble with him, David," grunted the Master. "Damned quixotic young fool. He’s got no right to get killed officially: it upsets all one’s plans. Probably have to pass an Act of Parliament to bring him to life again." "Leave it to Molly, old man." The secretary measured out his tot. "Leave it all to her." "I never do anything else," sighed Sir Hubert. "What is worrying me is young Dawson." "There’s nothing really in that, is there?" David Dawlish looked a little anxiously at his old friend: as has been said before, he was no lover of young Dawson. "There’s a blood chestnut stone-dead at the bottom of a pit," returned the other. "However——" "Quite," assented Dawlish. "Leave it to Molly: leave it all to her." Which, taking everything into consideration, was quite the wisest decision they could have come to; it saved such a lot of breath. They both glanced up as a hospital nurse came down the stairs. "Miss Gollanfield asked me to tell you, Sir Hubert," she remarked, "that the patient is conscious. She is sitting with him for a few minutes." "Oh, she is, is she?" Sir Hubert rose from his chair a little doubtfully. "Sit down, Hubert; sit down," grinned Dawlish. "Haven’t we just decided to leave it all to her?" "Well, John Marston! Feeling better?" The man turned his head slowly on the pillow, and stared at the girl. "What an unholy——" he muttered. "How’s the horse?" The girl looked at him steadily. "Dead—back broken. We thought you’d done the same." "Poor brute! A grand horse." He passed one of his hands dazedly across his forehead. "I had to take him—I couldn’t have caught you on mine. I must explain things to your fiancé." "My what?" asked the girl. "Aren’t you engaged to him?" said the man. "They told me——" The words tailed off, and he closed his eyes. For a moment the girl looked at him with a great yearning tenderness on her face; then she bent over and laid a cool hand on his forehead. "Go to sleep, Danny Drayton," she whispered. "Go to sleep." But the name made him open his eyes again. "I told you my name was John Marston," he insisted. "Then I require an immediate explanation of why you called me darling," she answered. He looked at her weakly; then with a little tired smile he gave in.