Percival’s left hand shot out and caught hers to his lips.

“Why, Mr. Hascombe!” she cried “What’s the matter with your arm?  No, I mean the other one.”

“A mere scratch.”

“But your sleeve’s cut, and the handkerchief is all blood-stained.  Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

“I assure you it is nothing.  Quite all right in the morning.  Breakfast with you at nine.  Happy dreams!”

Bobby was not to be so easily put off.  She insisted upon following him out of the elevator and inspecting the wound,

“Why, it’s dreadful!” she cried.  “And it must have been bleeding like this for five minutes!  Quick!  Where’s your room?”

“But really, my dear girl, I can’t allow this.  You must get back into the lift straight away and go up to your room.”

“I sha’n’t do anything of the sort until you get Judson or a doctor or somebody.”

Percival would have carried his point but for a certain dizziness that had come over him.  He put out a hand to steady himself.

“Give me your key!” he heard Bobby saying, and the next instant his door was flung open, the lights were switched on, and he was staggering blindly toward the couch at the foot of the bed.  Then there was a furious ringing of bells, a long wait, followed by the appearance of a sleepy Chinese night watchman.

“Gentleman hurt!” cried Bobby.  “Get a doctor!  Send somebody up here quick!  Do you understand?”

“Me savvy,” said the Chinaman, calmly.  “Doctor no belong Astor Hotel.  All same belong Oliental Hotel.”

“I don’t care where he belongs,” Bobby cried impatiently.  “Get him over the telephone.  And send somebody up from the office, do you understand?”

“Oh, yes, me savvy,” he said, with the imperturbability of his race.

Percival heard the man’s footsteps dying in the distance, and he made a mighty effort to rouse himself.

“Silly of me to behave like this.  Quite all right now, thanks.  You must run away before any one comes.”

“Why?” demanded Bobby.

“Looks rather queer your being here like this at midnight, you know.  Wouldn’t compromise you for the world.”

Bobby was standing at his dressing-table searching for something, and she wheeled upon him indignantly.

“This is no time to be thinking about looks.  You lie down and stop talking.  Hold your arm up straight, like that.  Keep it that way until I come.”

He did as she told him, grasping his right wrist in his left hand; but the bright-red blood continued to spurt through his fingers, showing no signs of abating.

“If I could only find a string!” cried Bobby, tossing the contents of his bag this way and that.  “Here’s the strap on your toilet-case; perhaps it’ll do.”

She knelt beside the couch, and, ripping his sleeve to the elbow, hastily wrapped the leather thong twice about his forearm and slipped the strap into the buckle.