"God bless my soul, my good man!" exclaimed Mr. Wordley. "What makes you think that?"
"Experience, sir," replied the inspector, calmly. "Have you any idea how many accidents there are in a day in London? I suppose not. You'd be surprised if I told you. What was the date she was missing?"
Mr. Wordley told him, and he turned to a large red book like a ledger.
"As I thought, sir," he said. "'Young lady knocked down by a light van in Goode Street, Minories. Dark hair, light eyes. Height, five feet nine. Age, about twenty-one or two. Name on clothing, "Ida Heron."'"
Mr. Wordley sprang to his feet.
"It is she!" he exclaimed. "Was she much hurt, is—is she alive—where is she? I must go to her at once."
"London Hospital," replied the inspector, succinctly, as he turned to a subordinate. "Call a cab!"
It was not a particularly slow hansom, and it did not take very long to get from the police station to the hospital; but to Mr. Wordley the horse seemed to crawl and the minutes to grow into days. He leapt out of the hansom, and actually ran into the hall.
"You've a patient—Ida Heron"—he panted to the hall porter.
The man turned to his book.