Who? Part 2

As he knelt by the girl's side, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her, he suddenly became aware that a number of people had collected near the door and were watching the scene with unconcealed interest And among them stood Peter, his valet, staring at him with open-mouthed amazement.

d.a.m.n! He had completely forgotten him. If he didn't look out, the fellow would be sure to give the situation away.

"Peter," he called.

Peter elbowed his way through the crowd.

"Your mistress has fainted. Get my flask." Crichton spoke slowly and distinctly and looked Peter commandingly in the eye. Would he understand? Would he hold his tongue? Crichton watched him breathlessly.

For a moment Peter blinked at him uncomprehendingly. Then the surprise slowly faded from his face, leaving it as stolid as usual.

"Very well, sir," was all he said as he went off automatically to do his master's bidding. An order has a wonderfully steadying effect on a well-trained servant.

The brandy having been brought, Crichton tried to force a few drops of it between the girl's clenched teeth. After a few minutes, however, he had to abandon the attempt.

The situation was desperate.

The inspector stepped forward.

"Don't you think, sir, you ought to send for a doctor? The lady looks bad and she can't stay here, you know. The train has to be backed out in a few minutes. We'll carry her to the waiting-room if you wish, or come to think of it, hadn't you better call an ambulance? Then you could take the lady home and the doctor who comes with them things would know what to do for her."

Crichton almost gasped with relief.

"An ambulance! The very thing. Get one immediately!"

The last pa.s.senger was just leaving the station when the ambulance clattered up.

The doctor, although hardly more than a boy, seemed to know his business, and after examining the girl and asking a few questions, he proceeded to administer various remedies, which he took out of a bag he carried.

"I am afraid this case is too serious for me," he said at last.

"What is the trouble?"

"Of course, I can't speak with any certainty, but from what you tell me, I think the lady is in for an attack of brain fever."

Crichton felt _his_ brain reel.

"What shall I do?"

"We will take her home and in the meantime telephone to whatever doctor you wish to have called, so that he can see the patient as soon as possible."

"I have no house in town. I was going into lodgings but I can't take an invalid there."

"Of course not! What do you say to taking her at once to a nursing home?"

"Yes, that would be best. Which one would you recommend? I am ignorant of such matters."

"Well--Dr. Stuart-Smith has one not far from here. You know him by reputation, don't you?"

"Certainly. All right, take her there."

"I had better telephone and prepare them for our arrival. What is the lady's name, please?"

The inspector's eyes were upon him; Peter was at his elbow. Well--there was no help for it.

"Mrs. Cyril Crichton," he said.

The doctor returned in a few minutes.

"It is all right. They have got a room and Doctor Smith will be there almost as soon as we are."

Having lifted her into the ambulance, the doctor turned to Cyril and said: "I suppose you prefer to accompany Mrs. Crichton. You can get in, in front."

Crichton meekly obeyed.

"Take my things to the lodgings and wait for me there, and by the way, be sure to telephone at once to Mr. Campbell and tell him I must see him immediately," he called to Peter as they drove off.

They had apparently got rid of the police--that was something at all events. His own position, however, caused him the gravest concern. It was not only compromising but supremely ridiculous. He must extricate himself from it at once. His only chance, he decided, lay in confiding the truth to Dr. Smith. Great physicians have necessarily an enormous knowledge of life and therefore he would be better able than any other man to understand the situation and advise him as to what should be done. At all events the etiquette of his calling would prevent a doctor from divulging a professional secret, even in the case of his failing to sympathise with his, Cyril's, knight-errantry. Crichton heaved a sigh of satisfaction. His troubles, he foresaw, would soon be over.

The ambulance stopped. The girl was carried into the house and taken possession of by an efficient-looking nurse, and Cyril was requested to wait in the reception-room while she was being put to bed. Dr. Smith, he was told, would communicate with him as soon as he had examined the patient.

Crichton paced the room in feverish impatience. His doubts revived. What if the doctor should refuse to keep her? Again and again he rehea.r.s.ed what he intended to say to him, but the oftener he did so, the more incredible did his story appear. It also occurred to him that a physician might not feel himself bound to secrecy when it was a question of concealing facts other than those relating to a patient's physical condition. What if the doctor should consider it his duty to inform the police of her whereabouts?

At last the door opened. Dr. Smith proved to be a short, grey-haired man with piercing, black eyes under beetling, black brows, large nose, and a long upper lip. Cyril's heart sank. The doctor did not look as if he would be likely to sympathise with his adventure.

"Mr. Crichton, I believe." The little man spoke quite fiercely and regarded our friend with evident disfavour.

Crichton was for a moment nonplussed. What had he done to be addressed in such a fashion?

"I hope you can give me good news of the patient?" he said, disregarding the other's manner.

"No," snapped out the doctor. "Mrs. Crichton is very seriously, not to say dangerously, ill."

What an extraordinary way of announcing a wife's illness to a supposed husband! Was every one mad to-day?

"I am awfully sorry--" began Crichton.

"Oh, you are, are you?" interrupted the doctor, and this time there could be no doubt he was intentionally insulting. "Will you then be kind enough to explain how your wife happens to be in the condition she is?"

"What condition?" faltered Cyril.

"Tut, man, don't pretend to be ignorant. Remember I am a doctor and can testify to the facts; yes, facts," he almost shouted.

Poor Crichton sat down abruptly. He really felt he could bear no more.

"For G.o.d's sake, doctor, tell me what is the matter with her. I swear I haven't the faintest idea."

His distress was so evidently genuine that the doctor relaxed a little and looked at him searchingly for a moment.

"Your wife has been recently flogged!"