The doctor came out and shut the door. He looked into the drawing-room for a moment. “Miss Tower,” he said, “if Mrs. Gould lives until after twelve to-night, look out.”
“I had meant to,” I said.
Then he went up to his patient.
At twelve that night Mrs. Gould was alive and sleeping peacefully. As soon as Mr. Gould had heard this glad news he went up to bed. That night, for the first time, I had not received my fee. At breakfast next morning he was distinctly disrespectful in his manner. “Look here,” he said, “the best of friends must part. You’ve done all I wanted, and there is no doubt my mother will get on all right without you now. She has got rid of the idea that my half-sister is dead, and that was the main point. I’ve told them to pack your things, and as soon as you’re ready to go you shall have that last fiver you managed to screw out of me. You’ve been paid a sight too well, but I’m a man of my word.”
“I’m not going,” I said.
“Not going? Don’t talk in that silly way. You’ll have to go. I can starve you out—I can throw you out by force if you like. Still, I don’t want a scene. I suppose I must make it two fivers instead of one. That’s what you’re after.”
I took out the slip of paper on which Dr. Wentworth had written down his address for me. “It’s quite true,” I said. “You may have my things packed and put on a cab, and may ask me to leave the house. If I do so that will be the address to which the cabman will drive, and the consequences are likely to be serious for you.”
He raved and abused like a drunken cad for a few moments, and then went out of the room—and, a moment later, out of the house.
At eleven that morning Mrs. Gould died suddenly in my arms. It was a quick and painless ending. A telegram was sent to Mr. Gould’s office in the City, and the reply came back that he was not there. Dr. Wentworth came down to the drawing-room with me and seemed slightly hesitating. “Excuse me,” he said, “for asking the question, but have you any friends in London?”
“None,” I said.