She leaned heavily against the counter, feeling giddy and sick—the place swimming around her. Was he dead? Had he met his death trying to save her? "Blessed if I don't think he's dead and done for," said the chemist. "It ain't such a bad cut neither. I say! does anybody know who he is?"
Nobody knew. Then the keen eyes of X 2001 fell upon Edith, pale and wild-looking, with evident terror and recognition in her face.
"I say, miss, you know, don't you?" Bobby suggested politely. "It was reskying you he got it, you know. You know this 'ere gent, don't you, miss! Who is he?"
"He is Sir Victor Catheron."
"Oh," said Bobby. "Sir Victor Catheron, is he? I thought he was a heavy swell." And then his eyes took in Edith's very handsome face, and very plain dress, and evident station, and he formed his own surmise. "Perhaps now, miss, you knows too, where he ought to be took?"
"No," she answered mechanically; "I don't know. If you search his pockets, you will most likely find his address. You—you, don't really think he is dead?"
She came a step nearer as she asked the question—her very lips colorless. An hour ago it seemed to her she had almost wished for his death—now it seemed too horrible. And to meet it saving her too,—after all her thoughts of him. She felt as though she could never bear that.
"Well, no, miss, I don't think he is dead," the chemist answered, "though I must say he looks uncommon like it. There's something more the matter with him than this rap on the 'ead. Here's his card-case—now let's see: 'Sir Victor Catheron, Bart. Fenton's 'Otel.' Fenton's 'Otel. Bobby, I say, let's horder a cab and 'ave him driven there."
"Somebody ought to go with him," said X 2001. "I can't go—you can't go. I don't suppose now, miss," looking very doubtfully at Edith, "you could go nuther?"
"Is it necessary?" Edith asked, with very visible reluctance.