him far," said he. "'Twill increase the
hemorrhage."

"My men shall carry him across to Stretton House," said Lord Ostermore.
"Lend a hand here, you gaping oafs."

The footmen advanced. The crowd, which was growing rapidly and was
watching almost in silence, awed, pressed as close as it dared upon
these gentlemen. Mainwaring procured a couple of cloaks and improvised
a stretcher with them. Of this he took one corner himself, Gascoigne
another, and the footmen the remaining two. Thus, as gently as might be,
they bore the wounded man from the enclosure, through the crowd that
had by now assembled in the street, and over the threshold of Stretton
House.

A groom had been dispatched for a doctor, and his Grace of Wharton had
compelled Rotherby to accompany them into his father's house, sternly
threatening to hand him over to a constable at once if he refused.

Within the cool hall of Stretton House they were met by her ladyship
and Mistress Winthrop, both pale, but the eyes of each wearing a vastly
different expression.

"What's this?" demanded her ladyship, as they trooped in. "Why do you
bring him here?"

"Because, madam," answered Ostermore in a voice as hard as iron, "it
imports to save his life; for if he dies, your son dies as surely--and
on the scaffold."

Her ladyship staggered and flung a hand to her breast. But her recovery
was almost immediate. "'Twas a duel--" she began stoutly.

"'Twas murder," his lordship corrected, interrupting--"murder, as any
of these gentlemen can and will bear witness. Rotherby ran Mr. Caryll
through the back after Mr. Caryll had spared his life."

"'Tis a lie!" screamed her ladyship, her lips ashen. She turned to
Rotherby, who stood there in shirt and breeches and shoeless, as he had
fought. "Why don't you say that it is a lie?" she demanded.

Rotherby endeavored to master himself. "Madam," he said, "here is no
place for you."

"But is it true? Is it true what is being said?"

He half-turned from her, with a despairing movement, and caught the
sharp hiss of her indrawn breath. Then she swept past him to the side of
the wounded man, who had been laid on a settle. "What is his hurt?" she
inquired wildly, looking about her. But no one spoke. Tragedy--more
far than the tragedy of that man's possible death--was in the air, and
struck them all silent. "Will no one answer me?" she insisted. "Is it
mortal? Is it?"

His Grace of Wharton turned to her with an unusual gravity in