"Don't look much like a goldfields man," observed one of the group. "Where's his nuggets?"
"He has had a hard time," continued the woman, whom the reader will recognise as Mrs. Chaytor. "He wrote to me about his hardships. See what they have brought him to. Will none of you help me? Here is money--I am not so poor as I look; my poor husband has had a bit of luck. For pity's sake help me! O my son, my son!"
"I am a doctor," said a gentleman, pushing his way through. Kneeling by Mrs. Chaytor's side, he lifted Basil's head on his knee, and made a rapid examination. "The poor fellow is starving, I should say. Run, one of you, and fetch a quartern of brandy--and some water if you can get it."
Mrs. Chaytor held out a trembling hand, and a woman snatched the money from lit and darted off. The policeman, who had by this time joined the group, shook his head disapprovingly.
"You've seen the last of that," he said.
He was mistaken, however; the woman returned with two flat bottles, one containing brandy, the other water. With these the doctor moistened Basil's lips, and forced a few drops down his throat.
"You see," he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Chaytor, "that he is not yet dead. Whether he lives or dies depends not upon himself. I think I heard you say you are his mother."
"I am his unhappy mother," sobbed Mrs. Chaytor. "Oh, how I have prayed for his return, and he is sent to me now like this! It is cruel, it is unjust. Save him for me, doctor, and I will bless you to the last hour of my life!"
"We will see what can be done. Do you live near here?"
"We live in Southwark Road."