"What are they doing with him?" asked Grantham.
"They are carrying him to Charing Cross Hospital."
"He will be all right there. If we want to inquire after him we can do so to-morrow. Let us look after the child."
She needed looking after; but for Grantham's sustaining arm she would have sunk into the gutter.
"I know the hospital to take her to," said Grantham, "and the medicine she needs."
With Little Prue in his arms, he plunged into a narrow street, accompanied by Rathbeal, and entered a common restaurant, where he ordered a pot of tea, bread and butter, and a chop. The swift motion through the air had done something to revive Little Prue, the tea and food did the rest; and presently she was eating and drinking as only one who was famished could. The men looked on in wondering pity, and did not interrupt her engrossing labors. It was not until nature was satisfied that she thought of her father; a look of terror flashed into her eyes.
"What's the matter, child?" asked Robert Grantham.
"Father'll be the death of me!" she replied.
"Don't be frightened; he will not hurt you."
"Are you sure, sir? You don't know father!"