“Yes. I’ve had my eye on a couple of strangers lately,” he said, as he took out a book and gave a sharp look round. “P’r’aps Mr Crampton, sir, you’ll give me the information I want.”
“Mr Crampton will give you no information at all,” said the keen-looking doctor angrily. “The first thing is to save the man’s life. Here, sergeant, and you, my man, help me to carry him up to his bed—or no—well, yes, he’ll be better in his own room. Pray, ladies, pray stand aside.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Madelaine excitedly, as she rose. “Mother, dear, we must be calm and helpful.”
“Yes; but—but—” moaned the poor woman.
“Yes, dearest,” cried Madelaine, “afterwards. Dr Knatchbull wants our help.”
“Good girl,” said the doctor, nodding. “Get the scissors, some old linen, and basin, sponge and water, in the bedroom.”
“Yes, doctor,” said Madelaine, perfectly calm and self-contained now. “Mother, dear, I want your help.”
She knelt down and pressed her lips for a moment to her father’s cheek, and then placed her arm round her mother, and led her away.
An hour later, when everything possible had been done, and Mrs Van Heldre was seated by her husband’s pillow, Vine being on the other side holding his friend’s hand, Madelaine showed the doctor into the next room.
“Tell me,” she said firmly. “I want to know the truth.”