The girl went to her mistress and delivered the gipsy’s message.
In a minute or so after this an elegantly dressed aristocratic-looking female entered the doctor’s consulting room.
“You wished to see me, sir,” she observed, with hauteur, addressing herself to the gipsy.
For a moment Bill was so taken aback that he could not find words to express himself. He stood gazing abstractedly on the wan features of the fair creature before him, and found it difficult at that moment to feel assured as to her identity.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he stammered, “but you see I thought, as I listened to the conversation which was going on in the opposite room, I recognised a voice I had heard afore, though it be ever so many years back since I heard it.”
“I do not quite understand your meaning, sir,” observed his companion.
“Pray may I inquire whom I am addressing?”
“You do not know me, then?”
“I confess I do not.”
“I am Bill Rawton, the gipsy.”