Phil thought long and hard before sitting down at noon to write to Dickey Savage.  He disliked calling for help in the contest, but with a bandaged arm and the odds against him, he finally resolved that he needed the young New Yorker at his side.  Dickey was deliberation itself, and he was brave and loyal.  So the afternoon’s post carried a letter to Savage, who was still in London, asking him to come to Brussels at once, if he could do so conveniently.  The same post carried a letter to Lord Bob, and in it the writer admitted that he might need reinforcements before the campaign closed.  He also inclosed the clipping from the newspaper, but added a choice and caustic opinion of the efficiency of the Brussels police.  He did not allude specifically to Courant, the duke, or to the queer beginning of the prince’s campaign.

Early in the afternoon Mrs. Garrison sent to inquire as to his wound.  In reply he calmly prepared for an appearance in person.  Turk accompanied him, about four o’clock, in a cab to the house in Avenue Louise.  There were guests, and Phil was forced to endure a rather effusive series of feminine exclamations and several polite expressions from men who sincerely believed they could have done better had they been in his place.  Mrs. Garrison was a trifle distant at first, but as she saw Quentin elevated to the pedestal of a god for feminine worship she thawed diplomatically, and, with rare tact, assumed a sort of proprietorship.  Dorothy remained in the background, but he caught anxious glances at his arm, and, once or twice, a serious contemplation of his half-turned face.

“I’ll let her think the fellow was one of the diamond robbers for the present,” thought he.  “She wouldn’t believe me if I told her he was in the employ of the prince, and the chances are she’d ruin everything by writing to him about it.”

When at last he found the opportunity to speak with her alone he asked how she had slept.

“Not at all, not a wink, not a blink.  I imagined I heard robbers in every part of the house.  Are you speaking the truth when you tell all these people it is a mere scratch?  I am sure it is much worse, and I want you to tell me the truth,” she said, earnestly.

“I’ve had deeper cuts that didn’t bleed a drop,” said he.  “If you must have the truth, Dorothy, I’ll confess the fellow gave me a rather nasty slash, and I don’t blame him, He had to do it, and he’s just as lucky as I am, perhaps, that it was no worse.  I wish to compliment your Brussels police, too, on being veritable bloodhounds.  I observed as I came in that they have at last scented the blood on the pavement in front of the house and have washed away the stain fairly well.”

“Wasn’t the story in the morning paper ridiculous?  You were very brave.  I almost cried when I saw how the horrid detectives criticised you.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, because I was afraid you’d think like the rest—­that I was a blundering idiot.”