There was a moment’s silence, and then Madelaine uttered a wild cry, and ran to her father’s side.
“Good heavens! Crampton, what is it?” cried Vine excitedly,—“a fit?”
“No, sir, struck down by a villain—a thief—and that thief—”
Crampton stopped short in the midst of his excitement, for there was a heavy step now in the passage, and the sergeant of police and one of his men came in.
“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.”