Neither said anything. Both were exhausted. Both were experiencing collapse after the danger and anxieties of the past two days--of the past hour. He put his arm round her to support her, and she leaned on him unconscious, or almost unconscious, that it was really he.

Cheyne now felt for the first time that he was covered with bruises and cuts from slates and nails. Of course, when he came to think of it, nothing but a miracle could have saved him injury in the ordeal through which he had just come. He knew that his clothes were all in tatters. His left leg and right arm felt particularly cold and uncomfortable, with here and there a very slight sense of pain. The pain was not worth talking about, but the cold uncomfortable sensation was new and very sickening.

He did not think of May or of the rescue he had just made. He was feeling, more than thinking. He allowed his mind to drift, and took no heed of the course it followed; and by a circumstance for which he feebly endeavoured to account as the cab rattled along, he found his mind more occupied with a curious observation of his own physical condition, that with any thought of May or recent events. This was very strange, and perplexed him in a hazy sort of way, as one is perplexed on waking in a dark strange room, and being unable to recollect in what relation the bed stands to the door or the door to the window.

Why could not he take his mind off his left leg and his right arm, when he had just not only recovered his lost darling, whom he had been two days seeking, but whom he had only just delivered from imminent risk of death? It was strange, very strange.

He had no desire to talk, no desire to utter a word. May was sitting there beside him, and he was taking her home to her aunt's house, and yet he felt no inclination to talk. What he should like most of all would be to go to bed and get covered up well, and fall fast asleep. By Jove, he was falling fast asleep as it was! What an extraordinary thing he should feel drowsy now he had recovered May, and all was so satisfactorily settled!

Asleep! Yes, he was falling asleep! What a wonderful thing! No doubt it was owing to the two sleepless nights he had spent. But his leg and arm did feel very dreary.

What! could he not keep his eyes open? This was incredible! Swimming?--he thought he had done with swimming. And yet here he was once more swimming out to that wreck with the line! What was the good of his going out again to that wreck when all the men but the one he had saved were drowned? What earthly good could come of carrying a line out to a ship on which there was not a living soul? Absurd as it was, he should not so much mind it only for his arm and leg. They had got entangled in the rope, and he could hardly support himself in the water. They were dragging him down.

May was also silent, although she never felt less sleepy in all her life. She was scared, and could not gather her thoughts. The past two days were like a dream to her, and she felt she should not be fully awake until she had got back to Tenby Terrace, and seen the old place and kissed her kind old aunt. She had run away and hidden herself, and Charlie had come in search of her and had found her, and she was going back with him. That was quite right and natural, and she was glad that horrible time was over--a time of dreaming or waking. Yes, she was going back once more to her old home with Charlie. She had no longer any doubt that it was wrong of her to have left home. She ought to have remained there and resisted Charlie. It was weak and cowardly of her to run away; and instead of that helping to make Charlie forget her, it would of course make him only more determined not to give her up. If she had stayed at home and seen him every day, and treated him merely as a friend when he called, he would have been much more swiftly cured of his love for her than by her flying and hiding herself from him.

What a wonder Charlie did not speak! He had not uttered a word since they had got into the cab, and now they were crossing the river.

Yes, this was Charlie's arm round her, and it would never be round her again. Never. Even now it was not round her in the old way. It was that of a supporter, a protector, not a lover. How could he continue to love her after her last act? If he had run away from her, would she care for him again?.... Ah, that would be a different thing. Of course she would forgive him. Who could, help forgiving Charlie anything? But then it was quite a different thing. He had everything in his favour, she nothing; and she had thrown him up, run away from him, and told him she would never marry him or meet him again as a lover. No. It was impossible to make any comparison between the two cases, and no doubt Charlie had thought over the whole thing, and came to the same conclusion as she.

That was lucky. It was lucky for her that Charlie had finally abandoned all thought of looking at her in the old way. She had tried to break away from her old home, and she had met cruel difficulties and rebuffs. She would never have left her aunt but that she thought doing so would be of advantage to him. And it had been of advantage to him. Had it not changed him from the warm but unwise lover into merely the protector and friend? Nothing could have been more efficacious than the plan she had adopted. If he had not found her that night, the chances are his love of her would have gone on as of old, and if she had been a whole fortnight from home his love of her might have increased, to fade away as the time of her absence grew longer. But here was she now, who had run away only two days ago, who only two days ago had told him she would never know him as a suitor again, brought back from her hiding and placed face to face with him. All his love must have left him. What could be plainer? What could be more simple? They were now driving through Piccadilly, and he had not said a word.

His face was pale and drooped forward, so that she could only see his forehead. His clothes were, like hers, torn and ragged, and--yes, there was something the matter with his clothes she had not noticed before--something that was not the matter with hers--they were wet! Wet! Wet with what?

Here by this shoulder, close to which she rested her head, his coat was wet and clammy. Clammy!

"Charlie! Charlie! I am very sorry for all I have done--all the trouble I have caused you and poor dear aunt. Will you not speak to me? Scold me if you like, but speak!" she said pleadingly. She stretched out both her hands and touched his left hand. She lifted that hand; there was no resistance. She let that hand go; it fell inertly back. Then she shook herself free from the arm that held her; it dropped down nervelessly behind her back.

"My God!" she cried, "what is the matter?" She turned towards him. She put one of her hands on his forehead. She touched his cheek. Both were cold. She raised his head. It wagged to either side, and then fell forward again until the chin rested on the chest.

Then she shrieked. The cabman heard her and drew up. He clambered down out of his seat and looked into the cab.

"What's the matter?" asked the man. "Oh, I don't know! I don't know! Look!"

"Wake up, sir, wake up. The young lady is frightened. Wake up, sir!" The man shook Cheyne, and raised his hand, and struck his thigh, but there was no response.

"Why, he's wet!" cried the man; "he's wet all over! What wet him?"

"I don't know. Oh Heaven, be merciful to me, and do not drive me mad! I was in a house that caught fire--the one you saw burning--and he saved me!"

The man opened the cab and looked carefully up and down Cheyne. Then he looked at the floor of the cab close to where Cheyne sat, and glancing up with a face full of fear, he cried: "Why, it's blood. He's all wet with blood! Look!"

May turned her eyes down, and saw upon the floor of the cab a large pool of blood close to the left leg. She did not shriek. She turned deadly pale, and said to the man: "Quick, quick; quick as you can go! Eight, Tenby Terrace!"

The man clambered up into his seat, and, whipping the horse, drove off at the top of the beast's speed.

In less than ten minutes he drew up at the door of Miss Traynor's house, jumped down and knocked loudly. The man whom Cheyne had set to watch the side door opened it and came out. In a minute Anne appeared at the front-door. Both were dressed, and ran forward hastily towards the cab. By this time May had alighted, and was standing at one side of the cab, while the driver stood at the other.

Anne uttered a cry of delight at seeing May, but the girl pointed into the cab, saying: "Make haste, get him up to the spare room at once."

The two men lifted him out of the cab and carried him slowly and with difficulty upstairs, and laid him on the bed in the small spare room. The cab was immediately sent for a surgeon, and May sat down by Cheyne's side to watch.

Miss Traynor had gone to bed that night and was now asleep. May did not know what to do, except to try and force a few teaspoonfuls of brandy into Cheyne's mouth. Fortunately the surgeon was at home, and in a few minutes his tread was heard on the stairs. May told the surgeon all she knew, and then she and Anne went out of the room, leaving the surgeon and the man Cheyne had sent together.

For upwards of an hour May had to wait before the surgeon opened the door; then he came downstairs with a very grave face.

The surgeon said Mr. Cheyne was now conscious, but very low.

May had given the injured man's old name in order, if possible, to avoid attracting particular attention to the circumstances out of which the case arose, or the case itself. The patient had lost a very large, an exceedingly large, quantity of blood. Only he happened to have a splendid constitution and youth, he must have succumbed in the cab. His right arm and left leg had been severely torn by splinters and nails. Some of the splinters had remained in the flesh, and had had to be extracted. The sufferer had been overtaxed at the time he received the injuries. He had, the surgeon gathered from him, been two days in great mental excitement, eating little, and moving about continually. Then at the fire he had made prodigious efforts. The speaker had questioned him in detail on this part of the case, and felt sure that few men, few of even the strongest men in their freshest vigour, could have accomplished the feats performed by him in that emergency. Even if he had come out of that fierce ordeal of physical strength unscathed, there would in all likelihood be a great reaction and depression of vital power. But the great loss of blood coming at such a moment made the case one of great anxiety--of the gravest anxiety.

Was his life in danger?

Well, the life of anyone who got a cut or a scrape was to a certain extent in danger, for many things might assail that cut or proceed from it. There was another thing which complicated this case, namely, the fact that where these fresh cuts and scrapes appeared were others not quite healed, This gave the case an ugly appearance.

Would Dr. Fernbeck wish for assistance? He could have any one he liked.

Well, up to this there was no immediate cause of alarm. But let him see.

Yes, he should like to meet the man who attended for those older cuts and bruises. It would be useful to meet that man. Where was he to be found?

It was Dr. Oliver Rowland, of Barnardstown.

And where were those injuries received?

At Silver Bay.

What! Was the Mr. Cheyne upstairs the Mr. Cheyne of the celebrated, of the immortal swim to the yacht Seabird?

Yes.

And consequently he was the Duke of Shropshire?

Yes.

And possibly a brother to the lady the speaker had then the honour of addressing?

No. And would Dr. Fernbeck have the goodness not to say anything about the patient's rank, or even the name she had given him? as, for some sufficient reason, the Duke was in London, and had been for some days under an incognito.

Dr. Fernbeck promised to respect the incognito, and say nothing about the case. He would at once telegraph to Dr. Oliver Rowland, at Barnardstown, asking him to come up and consult with him. Let him see; it was now five o'clock. There was no use in telegraphing before eight, as the office at Barnardstown was sure not to be open until then. By nine or half-past nine he should have a reply from Dr. Oliver Rowland, and by ten he would be at Tenby Terrace again.

Might she go up and sit with the patient?

Was the lady whom he had the honour of addressing the Miss Marion Durrant of whom his grace had spoken, and whom his grace so much desired to see?

Her name was Marion Durrant.

Then she might go up, but no one else was to go into the room save the man whom he had left with the patient, and who would be relieved in a few hours by a professional nurse. In the meantime, the patient was not to be excited or allowed to excite himself. Excitement of any kind might produce the gravest, the very gravest, results.

When Dr. Fernbeck had gone. May went into the little sitting-room for a moment, to think. She had told Anne not to rouse her aunt, for, knowing what a poor sleeper she always was, and having heard how she had sat up the night before, and feeling that the poor old helpless woman would be unable to render any assistance, and that the sense of her uselessness would only pain her. May had resolved to let Miss Traynor sleep on. But, now she was about to go up and see him, what would he say? what should she say?

The thoughts which had passed through her mind in the cab, having been nearly all based on the belief that he was at the time deliberately keeping silence, were now worthless, and she had no clue to what had really been, in his mind, for she did not know at what precise moment he had fainted. He may have been semi-unconscious at the instant he helped her in. Owing to her own terror and excitement she had not noticed the blood on his clothes; and as he wore black, and the blood came from within, it had no other effect on the clothes but to make them damp and clammy.

But what would he say? what should she say? It was impossible to answer these questions. Let her go to him at once. That was the only way to solve the riddle.