"Charity!" I hiccoughed, "Charity!"
"Be off with you, you rascal!" cried my master sharply. I clutched a shilling, and broke into a stream of drunken sobbing thanks. Moving off I collided designedly with the vacant bench, and sprawled upon the ground. There I lay pretending to be senseless. They came up, and turned me over on my back; Sir William Dagmar also kicked my ribs, but I answered all attempts to revive me with snores.
Satisfied apparently with my condition, they presently returned to their seats and began to converse. The crown of my head was presented to their gaze, so I could not see them, but I could hear, and not a word escaped me. "I thought for a moment he was really hurt," said the woman.
"He is half stunned and wholly asleep," replied my master, "nevertheless let us speak in French. We cannot be too careful, Marion."
"Would it not be as well to move on?" asked the woman.
"For you perhaps, my child. You are young and strong, but I am old, and my stroll has tired me out. Let us rest yet a little!"
"As you please, M'sieur."
"You were describing the effects of the picra toxic solution," suggested my master.
"That is true. Alas! M'sieur, we have once more a failure to record—so many failures!" she replied drearily. "The operation is always so perfect, so perfect, and yet always the patients die,—of shock!"
"Ah! Then the woman is dead."