“And did she really try to drown herself?” said the doctor.
“I wouldn’t answer the question,” replied Geoffrey; “but you, being a doctor, ought to know all—so I tell you, yes. She really did, and—pray hurry, old fellow: we may be too late.”
“I am hurrying all I can, Trethick,” said the doctor; “but I must get in with some breath left in my body.”
“Yes, of course; but could I do any good if I ran on first?”
“No, not a bit. Bessie Prawle, you say, is with her. Poor lass—poor lass!”
“So I say, with all my soul, doctor. But I would not put it abroad what has happened.”
“These affairs tell their own tale, Trethick,” said the doctor.
“Yes, yes, of course; but I’d keep it as quiet as I could.”
“I am no scandal-monger, Trethick,” said the doctor, dryly; and they hurried on, Geoffrey waiting outside, and walking up and down with old Prawle while Mr Rumsey went in.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he came to the door with a paper.