The girl led the way to the drawing-room.
"Bad news, doctor?" said the tall old man, in an agitated voice, as he entered, with his eyes fixed on Sir Jacob Lake. "My name is Rokestone—Sir Harry Rokestone. Tell me, is it so bad as the servant says? You have not given her up?"
The doctor shook his head; he advanced slowly a step or two to meet Sir Harry, and said, in a low tone:
"Mrs. Ware is dying—sinking very fast."
Sir Harry walked to the mantelpiece, laid his hand on it, and stood there without moving. After a little he turned again, and came to Sir Jacob Lake.
"You London doctors—you're so hurried," he said, a little wildly, "from place to place. I think—I think—look, doctor; save her! save her, man!"—he caught the doctor's wrist in his hand—"and I'll make your fortune. Ye need never do an hour's work more. Man was never so rewarded, not for a queen."
The doctor looked very much offended; but, coarse as the speech was, it was delivered with a pathetic and simple vehemence that disarmed him.
"You mistake me, sir," he said. "I take a very deep interest in this case. I have known Mrs. Ware from the time when she came to live in London. I hope I do my duty in every case, but in this I have been particularly anxious, and I do assure you, if——What's that?"
It was, as Shakespeare says, "a cry of women," the sudden shrilly clamour of female voices heard through distant doors.
The doctor opened the door, and stood at the foot of the stairs.