Francis was still wearing Mr. John Hill's greasy jacket and
moleskins, but the removal of the sandy whiskers and a remarkable
wig, consisting of a bald pate with a fringe of reddish hair, had
gone far to restore him to the semblance of his former self.
Desmond was feeling a good deal better. His head had escaped the
full force of the smashing blow dealt at him by Strangwise with
the butt of his pistol. He had instinctively put up his arm to
defend his face and the thickly padded sleeve of Bellward's
jacket had broken the force of the blow. Desmond had avoided a
fractured skull at the price of an appalling bruise on the right
forearm and a nasty laceration of the scalp.
Francis had resolutely declined to enlighten him as to the events
of the night until both had breakfasted. After despatching the
corporal of military police to hurry the housekeeper on with the
breakfast, Francis had taken his brother straight to the
dining-room, refusing to let him ask the questions which thronged
his brain until they had eaten and drunk. Only when all the ham
and eggs had disappeared, did Francis, lighting one of Mr.
Bellward's cigars, consent to satisfy his brother's curiosity.
"It was only yesterday morning," he said, "that I landed at
Folkstone from the Continent.
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