“Of course. Miss Studwick held it for me,” said the doctor. “I thought you would recollect.”
“Yes—yes,” said Dutch strangely. “I had forgotten. My God, I must have been mad,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, in a low whisper.
“Nothing, nothing; go on, sir, pray.”
“I am glad I have awakened your interest,” said the doctor. “You thought me officious, but indeed, Mr Pugh, she needs your care and thought. That night I thought she would have died; some trouble, I fear, had given her incipient brain fever, and I really dread what may happen if she is subjected to this shock. If anything can be done.”
“I shall see, I shall see,” said Dutch hoarsely. “It was you, then, who carried her up-stairs—not our regular practitioner,” he added, with his voice trembling.
“No,” said the doctor; “I thought you knew.”
“Don’t speak to me any more now, doctor,” said Dutch, feeling for Mr Meldon’s hand, and pressing it warmly. “God bless you for this. I shall never forget it.”
“It is nothing, Pugh, nothing,” said the other warmly. “Forgive me if I seemed to resent your words; I know you are much troubled now.”
“Hark!” exclaimed Dutch; “listen.”