Richard uttered a groan as he raised her in his arms, and bore her rapidly into the lane, where, at the distance of a hundred yards, stood the cab, with Batty grazing comfortably, and Sam Jenkles dozing on his box.
“Taken ill—quick!” gasped Richard, as he lifted his burden into the vehicle. “Quick—London—the first doctor’s.”
The Use of Money.
That evening Frank Pratt was busily preparing himself for a City dinner, when Richard rushed panting into the room, haggard, his face covered with perspiration, and a look of despair in his eyes that frightened his friend.
“Why, Dick, old man,” he cried, catching his hands, “what is it?”
“Money, Frank—give me money—ten—twenty—fifty pounds; doctors—doctors. I’ve killed her—killed her!” he groaned.
Pratt asked no questions, but unlocking a desk, he took out and placed five crisp bank notes in his friend’s hand.
“I knew you would,” panted Richard. “God bless you, Frank! Best doctor—consumption?”
“Morley, Cavendish Square,” said Pratt, with sharp brevity.