“Oh, we’re wasting such precious time!” she cried.  “Listen!  I heard a shout.  I was on my way to the veranda to see what was detaining you.  For I had heard your car come in, quite a while before that.  I opened the door.  And I was just in time to see some man spring on you, with a knife in his hand.  Then Mr. Brice came running from the gateway, just as the man threw you down and lifted his knife to stab you.  Mr. Brice dragged him away from you and throttled him, and knocked the knife out of his hand.  I could see it ever so plainly.  For it was all in that big patch of light.  Just like a scene on a stage.  Then, Mr. Brice got to his feet, and swung the man to one side, by the throat.  And as he did, you jumped up, too, and hit him on the head with that miserable wrench.  As he fell, I could see the other man stagger off toward the path.  He was so weak, at first, he could hardly move.  I cried out to you, but you were so busy glaring down at the man who had saved your life that you didn’t think to start after the other one till he had gotten strength enough to escape from you.  Then I went for water to—­”

“Good Lord!” groaned Standish, agape.  “You’re—­you’re sure—­dead sure you’re right?”

“Sure?” she echoed, indignantly.  “Of course I’m sure.  I—­”

“Hold that measly dog’s collar,” he broke in.  “So!  I don’t care to be bitten.  I’ve had my share of knockabout stuff, for one day.”

Stooping, he picked up Brice as easily as though Gavin had been a baby, and with rough tenderness carried him toward the house.

“There are a lot of things, about all this, that I don’t understand,” he continued, irritably, as Claire and the still growling but tight-held Bobby followed him to the veranda.  “For instance, how that dog happens to be here and trying to protect a total stranger.  For, Bobby only got to Miami, from New Jersey, by this morning’s train.  He can’t possibly know this man.  That’s one thing.  Another is, how this—­Brice, did you say his name is?—­happened to be Johnny-on-the-spot when the other chap tried to knife me.  And how you happen to know him by name.  He’s dressed more like a day-laborer than like any one you’d be likely to meet ....  But all that can wait.  The thing now is to find how badly he’s hurt.”

They had reached the veranda, and Standish carried his burden through an open doorway, which was blocked by a knot of excitedly inquisitive servants.  A sharp word from Standish sent them whisperingly back to the kitchen regions.  Milo laid Brice down on a wicker couch in the broad, flagged hallway, and ran his fingers over the bruised head.

Gavin could hear Claire, in a nearby room, telephoning.

“Hold on, there!” called Standish, as his sister gave the operator a number.  “Wait!  As well as I can tell, at a glance, there doesn’t seem to be any fracture.  He’s just knocked out.  That’s all.  A mild concussion of the brain, I should think.  Don’t call a doctor, unless it turns out to be more serious.  It’s bad enough for the servants to be all stirred up like this, and to blab—­as they’re certain to--without letting a doctor in on it, too.  The less talk we cause, the better.”