The man in the white coat, though his forehead looked damp with perspiration, was smiling. H.M. had a heavy, sour glare of relief. Even Dr. Nithsdale, though a fierce-looking little man with a bedside manner which would have alarmed Methuselah, appeared less assertive than usual.
His voice was low but penetrating and shrill.
"Mind," he said, "I'll no' say it wasna a bonny guess! Ye've Sco'ish blood in ye're veins, I hae nae doot. Hoots, dinna trouble tae deny it! But I'll no' say, either, mind you, that the leddy's oot o' danger or owt like it, until—"
He paused. His eye fell on Sharpless, who was standing by the newel-post.
"Hoots!" said Dr. Nithsdale, stopping short. "Here's. a lad could du wi' a dose o' physic! Losh, mon, hauld tight! Ye're-"
"Is she dead?"
"Hoots!" said Dr. Nithsdale, with rich scorn.
It was H.M. who answered. He steadied Sharpless as the latter put both hands on the rail of the staircase.
"It's all right, son," H.M. said gently. "Take it easy. She'll live."