"Is he dead?"
"No, miss, not dead—not yet, thank God!"
"The doctor?"
"Dr. Crane from Lewes—we caught him, miss, most fortunately, on the way from another patient—he's downstairs now."
"Quick, Peters, things will be wanted."
Lizzie passed to the head of the stairs, Peters behind her said, "They've taken Sir Roderick into the green drawing-room, miss, so as not to have to go upstairs."
She came down the stairs and then stood, waiting in the hall. That was, for the moment, deserted, but the house wore an air of dismay, surprised alarm, so that every sound was of momentous import. Somewhere, a long way away, someone—perhaps a frightened kitchen-maid—was sobbing—the hall door was still open and little gusts of cold wind came in and stirred and rustled the pages of some illustrated papers on one of the tables.
Lizzie went to the door and closed it—what should she do? To go into the room and ask whether she could be of use? Her quarrel with Rachel had made any movement now on her part difficult—Rachel might resent her presence—
Someone came into the hall: she saw that it was the doctor. He stood, looking about him, as though he were searching for someone, and Lizzie went up to him—
"Doctor, please tell me—I'm staying in the house—is there anything—anything at all—that I can do?"