Almost immediately Alresca opened his eyes, and murmured faintly, "My
thigh."

I knelt down, but not before Rosa had sprung forward at the sound of
his voice, and kneeling close by my side had clasped his hand. I tried
to order her away, but my tongue could not form the words. I could
only look at her mutely, and there must have been an effective appeal
in my eyes, for she got up, nodding an acquiescence, and stood silent
and tense a yard from Alresca's feet. With a violent effort I nerved
myself to perform my work. The voice of Nolan, speaking to the
audience, and then a few sympathetic cheers, came vaguely from the
other side of the big curtain, and then the orchestra began to play
the National Anthem.

The left thigh was broken near the knee-joint. So much I ascertained
at once. As I manipulated the limb to catch the sound of the crepitus
the injured man screamed, and he was continually in very severe pain.
He did not, however, again lose consciousness.

"I must have a stretcher, and he must be carried to a room. I can't
do anything here," I said to Sir Cyril. "And you had better send for a
first-rate surgeon. Sir Francis Shorter would do very well--102
Manchester Square, I think the address is. Tell him it's a broken
thigh. It will be a serious case."

"Let me send for my doctor--Professor Eugene Churt," Rosa said. "No
one could be more skilful."

"Pardon me," I protested, "Professor Churt is a physician of great