"Just a scratch."
"It's more than a scratch. You're a bit of a good sport, Sally."
"No, I'm not." Then, "How am I ever going to thank you, Merry?"
"Don't try."
"I wish there was something I could do."
"That's dear of you. But there isn't, Sally."
He reached for her hand and held it. "Don't think of me as a hero, Sally. I'm not."
"You are!"
She stood looking down at him wistfully, then, suddenly lifted his hand, planted a shy little kiss on it, and was off, leaving him startled, disturbed, half-sorry that he had not faced the situation and shattered her illusion.
But it was Winslow who shattered it. He was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Sally came down.
"The others are in my car. They thought it best to go on at once and send Sampson back to look after Meriweather for the night."
"I went up to see Merry."
"So I judged. You are making a bit of a hero of him, I fancy."
"Why shouldn't I? He saved my life, didn't he?"
"Yes. But it was Hildegarde he tried to save."
Dead silence. Then, "What makes you say that?"
"Because it is true. He started to get her out, and she wouldn't let him."
"How do you know?"
"I heard him speak to her, when I leaned over to tell him to sit still."
