“Oh, not long. First they was for callin’ a hambulance; but when I tells ’em that ’e’s my boy, and lives in my ’ouse, they brings ’im in and we lays ’im on the sofa in the libery, and I rings up Dr. Lancing, and––”
But something in Barbara snapped. She could stand no more. Not to cry out or break down she sprang to her feet. “That’ll do, Steptoe. I know now all I need to know. Thank you for telling me. I shall stay here till the doctor or the nurse comes down. If I want you again I’ll ring.”
“BUT BY AND BY I CREEPS OUT AND DOWN THE STEPS, AND THERE ’E WAS, ALL ’UDDLED EVERY WYE.”
Lashing up and down the drawing-room, wringing her hands and moaning inwardly, Barbara reflected on the speed with which Nemesis had overtaken her. “If he wasn’t here—or if he was dead,” she had said, “I believe I could be happier.” As long as she lived she would hear the curious intonation in Aunt Marion’s voice: “He’s dead?—after all?” It was in that after all that she read the unspeakable accusation of herself.
Waiting for the doctor was not long. On hearing his step on the stair Barbara went out to meet him. “How is he?” she asked, without wasting time over self-introductions.
“It’s a little difficult to say as yet. The case is serious. Just how serious we can’t tell to-day—perhaps not to-morrow. I find no trace of fracture of the cranium, or of laceration of the brain; but it’s too soon to be sure. Dr. Brace and Dr. Wisdom, who’ve both been here, are inclined to think that it may be no more than a simple concussion. We must wait and see.”
Relieved to this extent Barbara went on to explain herself. “I’m Miss Walbrook. I was engaged to Mr. Allerton till—till quite recently. We’re still great friends—the greatest friends. He had no near relations—only cousins—and I doubt if any of them are in New York as late in the season as this—and even if they are he hardly knows them––”