“I knew it—I knew it!” she cried, bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing; “you’ve killed her. Look at her, sir, look. Oh, my poor dear, my poor dear! God forgive me! What shall I do?”
A chill of horror ran through Garstang, and he bent down over his victim, trembling violently now, as he raised one eyelid with his finger, then the other, bent lower so that his cheek was close to her lips, and then caught her hand, and tried to feel her pulse.
“No, no; she is only sleeping,” he said, hoarsely.
“Sleeping!” moaned the woman, hysterically; “do you call that sleep?”
Garstang drew a deep breath, and his horror increased.
“Help me to lay her on the couch,” he said, huskily.
“No, no, I’m strong enough,” groaned the woman. “Oh, my poor dear—my poor dear! he has murdered you.”
She rose quickly, and in her nervous exaltation, passed her arms round the helpless figure, and lifted it like a child, to bear it to the couch, and lay it helplessly down.
“Oh, help, help!” she groaned, in a piteous wail. “A doctor—fetch a doctor at once.”
“No, no, go for brandy—for cold water to bathe her face.”