"Thank you, sir," he said. "There must, as I have said, be good reasons for poor Stratton's actions. Pray be patient with him. You see, sir-- you see, Miss Jerrold, he is ill and suffering. Now, Stratton, for Heaven's sake speak out. You must explain. Tell Sir Mark what it is." "Take them away," said Stratton in a hoarse whisper; "take them away." "Yes, yes, but say something. What is it--some sudden attack? Come, man, don't look at me in that ghastly way; are you ill?" "No--no. I don't know," faltered Stratton. "Then you must have some explanation to make." "No--no. None. Go!" "Mark--my dear brother," whispered Miss Jerrold. "Flesh and blood can't stand it, girl," he panted, with the veins in his temples purple; and snatching himself away, he thrust Guest aside and once more seized Stratton--this time by the arms. "Now, sir," he said hoarsely, "I know I ought to leave you in contempt for your cursed shilly-shallying, pusillanimous conduct, but with my poor child's agonised past before me, I can't behave as a polished gentleman should." Stratton glared at him in silence, with the pallor increasing, and his face assuming a bluish-grey tinge. "I came here believing--no, trying to believe--that you had been taken ill; that there was good reason for my child being once more exposed to a cruel public shame that must make her the byword of society. I ask you for an explanation, and in this cursedly cool way you say you have none to offer. You are not ill; you have not, as we feared, been attacked for your money, for there it lies on the table. There is nothing wrong, then, with you, and--good God! what's this?" He started away in horror, for the hand he had in his anger shifted to Stratton's shoulder was wet, and, as he held it out, Miss Jerrold uttered a faint cry, for it was red with blood; and, released from the fierce grasp which had held him up, Stratton swayed forward, reeled, and fell with a crash on to the carpet. "He's hurt. Wounded," cried Guest, dropping on one knee by his friend's side, but only to start up and dash into the adjoining room, to come back directly with basin, sponge, and water. "Damn!" raged the admiral, "what a brutal temper I have. Poor lad! poor lad! Fetch a doctor, Guest. No. That's right, sponge his temples, 'Becca. Good girl. Don't fetch a doctor yet, Guest. I am a bit of a quack. Let me see." He went behind the prostrate man, who lay perfectly insensible, and kept on talking hurriedly as he took out a penknife and used it freely to get at the injury in the shoulder. "Why didn't he speak? You were right, then, Guest. Some scoundrel has been here. Curse him! we'll have him hung. To be sure--a bullet gone right through here--no; regularly ploughed his flesh. Thank Heaven! not a dangerous wound. I can bandage it. But too much for a bridegroom. Poor lad! poor lad!"