Then she felt him bend lower, and suddenly his arms were under her.  He lifted her like a little child and sat down, holding her.  His hand pressed her head against his neck, fondling, soothing, consoling.  And she knew, with an overwhelming thankfulness, that she had not offered herself in vain.  She had drawn him out of his hell by the magic of her love.

IX

When morning came Mercer departed alone, and Curtis was left in charge.  Sybil lay in her room half dressed, while the latter treated her injured arm.

“You ought not to be up at all,” he remarked, as he uncovered it.  “Have you had any sleep?”

“Not much,” she was obliged to confess.

“Why didn’t you stay in bed?”

“I don’t want—­my husband—­to think me very bad,” she said, flushing a little.

“Why not?” said Curtis.  And then he glanced at her, saw the flush, and said no more.

She watched his bandaging with interest.

“You look so professional,” she said.

He uttered a short laugh.

“Do I?”

“I mean,” she said, unaccountably embarrassed, “that you do it so nicely.”

“I have done a good deal of veterinary work,” he said rather coldly.  And then suddenly he seemed to change his mind.  “I was a professional once,” he said, without looking at her.  “I made a mistake—­a bad one—­and it broke me.  That’s all.”

“Oh,” she said impulsively, “I am so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Not till he was about to leave her did she manage to ask the question that had been uppermost in her mind since his entrance.

“Have you seen Beelzebub yet?”

He paused—­somewhat unwillingly, she thought.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Is he”—­she hesitated—­“is he very bad?”

“He isn’t going to die, if that is what you mean,” said Curtis.

She felt her heart contract.

“Please tell me!” she urged rather faintly.  “I want to know.”

With the air of a man submitting to the inevitable Curtis proceeded to inform her.

“He is lying in the loft over the stable, like a sick dog.  He is rather badly mauled, and whimpers a good deal.  I shall take him some soup across presently, but I don’t suppose he’ll touch it.”

“Ok, dear!” she said.  “What shall you do then?”

“Mercer will have to lend a hand if I can’t manage him,” Curtis answered.  “But I shall do my best.”

She suppressed a shudder.

“I hope you will be successful.”

“So do I,” said Curtis, departing.

When she saw him again she asked anxiously for news; but he had none of a cheering nature to give her.  Beelzebub would not look at food.

“I knew he wouldn’t,” he said.  “He has been like this before.”

“Mr. Curtis!” she exclaimed.

He shrugged his shoulders.