“Now, Miss, I’ll see first, and come back and tell you.”
“Man! do you think I am a child?” was the sharp reply; and rushing by him, the speaker passed into the room, and went down upon her knees directly beside a figure in a shabby old dressing-gown, lying face downward on the floor.
“Is he—”
“Quick! turn on that gas.”
The constable took a step to obey, and kicked against something which rattled as it flew forward, and struck the wainscot board, while the next moment a dim, blue spark of light in a ground-glass burst into a flame, and lit up a dingy-looking, old-fashioned surgery just as the kneeling girl uttered a piteous cry.
“That’s enough,” muttered the constable, stooping and picking up the object he had kicked against—a short whalebone-handled life-preserver, and slipping it into his pocket. “Tells tales. Now, Miss,” he continued aloud, bending over the prostrate figure. “Hah! yes! I thought as much.”
It was plain enough. A slight thread of blood was trickling slowly from a spot on the smooth glistening bald head of the prostrate man, while as, with a moan of anguish, the girl thrust her arm softly beneath his neck, and raised the head, the mark of another blow was visible above the temple.
“Now, Miss, I can’t leave you like this. Let me stay while you go for help. We must have some one here.”
These words seemed to rouse the girl into fierce action, and she gently supported the wounded head, her hand sought the injured man’s wrist, and seized it in a professional way.
“Man,” she cried with angry energy, “while we are seeking help he may—Yes; still beating. Quick! Open that door. No, no; that’s the way into the street! The other door—the consulting-room. Prop it open with a chair. We must get him on to the sofa, and do something at once.”