"A seizure!" answered the other. "Yes—that's it—a seizure! He'd had one—slight giddiness—just before we got in. A—the train's stopping, though. Charing Cross? I—I know a doctor close by."
The train was already pulling up. Hetherwick flung open the dividing door between his compartment and the next—he had seen the conductor down there and he beckoned to him.
"Quick!" he called. "Here!—there's a man ill—dying, I think! Come here!"
The conductor came—slowly. But when he saw the man in the corner, he made for the outer door and beckoned to men on the platform. A uniformed official ran up and got in.
"What is it?" he asked. "Gentleman in a fit? Who's with him? Anybody?"
Hetherwick looked round for the man with the stained fingers. But he was already out of the carriage and on the platform and making for the stairs that led to the exit. He flung back a few words, pointing upward at the same time.
"Doctor!—close by!" he shouted. "Back in five minutes!—get him out."
But already there was a doctor at hand. Before the man with the stained fingers had fairly vanished, other men had come in from the adjoining compartments; one pushed his way to the front.
"I am a medical man," he said curtly. "Make way, please."
The other men stood silently watching while the new-comer made a hasty examination of the still figure. He turned sharply.