It was a wild, fantastic idea of hers that he might possibly have brought some further evidence that would help her in her search for the truth, but the pockets were empty. She felt something wet upon the sleeve, and gathered that it was raining. She went back to her room, closed the door noiselessly, and went to the window to look out into the street. It was a fine morning, and the streets were dry. She saw her hands. They were smeared with blood! She ran down the stairs again and turned on the light in the hall. Yes, there it was on his sleeve. There were little drops of blood on the stair carpet. She could trace him all the way up the stairs by this. She went straight to his room and knocked. He answered instantly. “Who is that?” “It is I. I want to see you.” “I am rather tired,” he said. “Please let me in. I want to see you.” She tried the door, but it was locked. Then she heard the bed creak as he moved. An instant later the bolt was slipped, and the light shone through the fanlight over the door. He was almost fully dressed, she observed. “What is the matter with your arm?” she asked. It was carefully bandaged. “I hurt it. It is nothing very much.” “How did you hurt it?” she asked impatiently. She was nearing the end of her resources. She wanted him to say that it had happened in a taxi-cab smash or one of the street accidents to which city dwellers are liable, but he did not explain. She asked to see the wound. He was unwilling, but she insisted. At last he unwrapped the bandage, and showed an ugly little gash on the forearm. It was too rough to be the clean-cut wound of a knife or of broken glass. There was a second wound about the size of a sixpence near the elbow. “That looks like a bullet wound,” she said, and pointed. “It has glanced along your arm, and has caught you again near the elbow.” He did not speak. She procured warm water from the bathroom and bathed it, found a cool emollient in her room and dressed it as well as she could. She did not again refer to the circumstances under which the injury had been sustained. This was not the time nor the place to discuss that. “There is an excellent nurse spoilt in you,” he said when she had finished. “I am afraid there is an excellent man spoilt in you,” she answered in a low voice, “and I am rather inclined to think that I have done the spoiling.” “Please get that out of your head altogether,” he said almost roughly. “A man is what he makes himself: you know the tag--the evil you do by two and two you answer for one by one; and even if you had any part in the influencing of my life for evil, I am firstly and lastly responsible.” “I am not so sure of that,” said she. She had made him a little sling in which to rest his arm.