“Yes, Miss; but a doctor.”
“I am a doctor’s daughter, man, and know what to do. Quick!”
“Well, of all—” muttered the constable, as he proceeded to the door in question; and then, without finishing the sentence, “Well, she is a plucked one!”
He stepped into a shabbily furnished room, in whose grate a fire was just aglow; and as the door swung to, and he cast the light round to seek for a chair, he caught sight of a vacant couch, a table with bottle, glasses, and sugar thereon, and the cover drawn all on one side, so that the glasses were within an ace of being off; and then, drawing in his breath, he stepped to the other side of the table, and held down the light, which fell upon a drawn and ghastly face, while, hidden by the table-cover, there lay the figure of a well-dressed man.
“Fit,” muttered the constable, bending lower. “No; I ain’t a doctor, but I know what that means.”
He stepped back quickly, and shut the door after him.
“No, no! prop it open.”
“Let it be, Miss,” he replied sternly. “There’s something else wrong there.”
The girl stared up at him aghast.
“Here’s a sofy will do,” he continued, pointing to a kind of settee, cushioned, and with a common moreen valance hanging down, while a rough kind of pillow was fastened to one end. “You get up, Miss, and lift a bit. I won’t hurt him more than I can help. That’s it. Sorry, Miss, I thought what I did.”