"But where is this man Washburn?" wearily demanded the other old scoundrel.

That question remained unanswered. For a woman had crossed the hall and stepped into the room. She wore the uniform of a trained nurse. And I could see at once that it was Alicia Ledwidge.

She stopped and stared at the three of us, with a look of wonder in her customarily tranquil eye. Then she stepped over to my side, stared at the bandage about my head, and slowly turned my face to the light so that she could see it better. Her look of wonder, I found, had deepened into one of indignation.

"Who did that?" she asked, still looking at the bit of beefsteak so neatly embedded in linen.

"Michael!" was my grim response, with an upward movement of the head. "Her Michael!"

She stood there for a moment or two, without speaking. But I could almost hear the wheels of her brain going round, like a watch with its case open.

"Does—does she know it?" the woman in the uniform finally asked.

"She ought to," I announced. "She saw it!"

I could perceive a slow change creep up over that