“The what?  Why do you say mortification, Mr. Savage?  I am quite sure—­”

“O, come now, Jane—­aw—­Lady Jane—­what do you mean by that?  What’s all the row about?  What has happened?” he cried.

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Savage.”

“Something’s wrong, or you’d seem happier to see me, that’s all,” he said, helplessly.  “Lord, all my troubles come at once.  Phil is half dead, perhaps all dead, by this time—­and here you come along, adding misery instead of—­”

“Phil—­Mr. Quentin—­what did you say, Dickey?” she cried, her haughty reserve fading like a flash.

“Don’t you know?” he cried.  “Almost killed last night by—­by robbers.  Slugged him nearly to a finish.  Horrible gashes—­eight stitches”—­he was blurting out excitedly, but she clasped his arm convulsively and fairly dragged him to where Lady Saxondale stood.

“Oh, Dickey!  They didn’t kill—­he won’t die, will he?  Why didn’t you tell us before?  Why didn’t you telegraph?” she cried, and there was no wrath in the thumping, terrified little heart.  Lady Saxondale turned quickly upon hearing the excited words of the girl who but a moment before had been the personification of reserve.

“What are you saying, Jane?  Is there anything wrong?” she asked.

“Everything is wrong—­Philip is dead!” cried Lady Jane, ready to faint.  “Dickey says there are eight gashes, and that he is all dead!  Why don’t you tell us about it, Dickey?”

“He’s all right—­not dead at all.  Robber’s held him up last night during the storm, and if help hadn’t come just when it did they’d have made short work of him.  But I can’t tell you about it here, you know.  If you’ll allow me I’ll take a look for the baroness.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Lady Jane, enthusiastically.  “Dickey,” she went on as they hurried away, “I forgive you.”

“Forgive me for what?” he asked.

“For not coming to Ostend,” demurely.

“You really wanted me to come, did you, Jane?”

“Yes, after I had been goose enough to telegraph to you, you know.  You don’t know how small I felt when you did not come,” she hurried out, but his merry laugh cut short the humiliating confession.

“And that was why you—­”

“Yes, that was why.  Don’t say another word about it, though.  I was such a horrid little fool, and I am so ashamed of myself.  And you were so worried all the time about dear Mr. Quentin,” she pleaded, penitently.

“You might have known that nothing short of death could have prevented me from coming to Ostend,” said he softly.  “But I’ve all sorts of news to tell you.  When I tell you about the duel you’ll go into convulsions; when you hear—­”

“A duel?  Good heavens, how—­I mean who—­” she gasped, her eyes wider than ever.

“’I don’t know how, but I do know who.  Jane, I have shot a man!” he said, impressively.

“Oh, oh, oh!  Dickey!” she almost shrieked, coming helplessly to a standstill, a dozen emotions crowding themselves into her pretty, bewildered face.