Lorna saw the red patch on his costume at the same time.
She went very pale, but said nothing as she bent towards him, so that the waiter could not see the shoulder and its ominous patch of blood. Mannering warmed towards her as she smiled.
“We’ll get out as soon as we can,” she said. “Mother’s leaving just after twelve, and so are some of the others. It’ll look natural enough. Get back and change, my dear.”
Mannering smiled at her in a gratitude he could not have expressed in words. She had asked no questions, revealed no excitement, but only anxiety; he knew that without her he must have been lost.
But this was something he must explain.
“My dear man,” said Lorna, a quarter of an hour later, “I’m coming back to your flat with you to patch you up.”
“Not at this hour,” muttered Mannering. He was standing by a taxi, one of a hundred drawn up outside the New Arts Hall. The first streams of home-going revellers were crowding the pavements, mostly older folk, but sprinkled here and there with an occasional younger couple. Mannering, in evening-dress, looked no different from the others, but his arm was throbbing badly now, and he was anxious to get away.
“You haven’t half the sense you get credit for,” said Lorna tersely. She beckoned a taxi and gave his Brook Street address. He smiled as he entered the cab, knowing that he could not dissuade her; he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to.
Less than twenty minutes after he was standing in his bathroom stripped to the waist, and Lorna was examining the wound with a keen, almost professional eye. She was cool, and completely unflurried.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “Or I think you are. It’s not touched the bone.”
“It feels as though it’s broken a dozen,” said Mannering ruefully. “It’ll heal all right.”
“You’ll need a doctor, said Lorna quickly.
Mannering turned towards her. There was a smile on his lips and an expression which she could not understand as he answered.
“That’s ruled right out,” he said.
She stared at him for a moment uncertainly. He could see that she was burning to ask questions, but for the moment he could not bring himself to talk of the night’s adventure. He was racking his brains to find a genuine explanation — or at least one to sound genuine. It seemed impossible. She was very shrewd, he knew; and he judged that she would be able to tell whether he was lying. So tor the time being he said nothing.
“So you don’t want to call a doctor,” she said, half to herself, and her eyes were dark, mysterious, probing. “Well — I can just see the bullet beneath the skin.”
Mannering said nothing.
“And it I try to get it out,” said Lorna, “it’s going to be painful for you and a nasty job for me.”
Mannering hesitated.
“I’ll manage it myself,” he said finally, “really . . .”
Lorna smiled; the shadows went from her eyes as she rested her hand on his arm.
“You’re a complete idiot,” she said. “Will you grit your teeth? I’ll try it.”
Mannering nodded. For a moment his fingers closed round her arm in an answering gesture of trust. She spoke quietly, as though afraid of sentiment.
“It’s lucky I’m not likely to faint at the sight of blood,” she said. “Turn towards the light, my dear . . .”
The next three minutes seemed like days, but Mannering knew that they might have been a great deal worse. Lorna, tight-lipped, probed with a knife at the dark patch she believed to be the bullet. The bullet it was, and very close to the skin. She levered it out, as she would have done a splinter, and then put it on a shelf.
“You’d better get rid of that.”
Mannering nodded, and sat down wearily on the side of the bath. He felt weak and very tired. Still very practical, Lorna bandaged the wound, after bathing it, and he was amazed at the comfort now.
“Get to bed,” she said quietly. “I’ll stay until morning.”
Mannering shook his head quickly as she spoke.
“You can’t,” he said. “It’s asking for trouble.”
“My folk will think I’m at Chelsea,” said Lorna, with a little smile. And then she caught his hands in hers. “John — don’t argue,
Very slowly the smile returned to Mannering’s lips.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
AT HALF-PAST EIGHT NEXT MORNING LORNA FAUNTLEY stirred in her chair and opened her eyes.
She had wrapped a blanket round her on the previous night, after making sure that Mannering was sleeping soundly, and had dozed fitfully during the small hours. Towards morning she had dropped into a deeper sleep, and she was surprised when she saw the time. The momentary bewilderment at her strange surroundings disappeared. She pushed the blanket away, switched on the electric kettle, which she had filled overnight, and hurried into the bathroom. A quick wash refreshed her, and she was smiling as she set the cups on a tray, collected the milk from outside the front door of the flat, and then tiptoed into Mannering’s room.
He was still sleeping soundly, and she could tell from the colour of his face that he was not suffering unduly
