he stood for a moment faint, sick, stunned, unable to speak or move; then she pressed forward, still without a word, through the throng. All made way for the beautiful, richly-robed lady with the death-white face and dilated eyes.
"Wife," one whispered, falling away.
"Not his wife—his sister," another conjectured.
"Neither," a third said. "I know her. It's Mrs. Hugh Darcy, his late uncle's adopted daughter. He has no sister, and his wife left him long ago."
It is doubtful if she heard; it is certain she never heeded. All she felt or knew was that Laurence Thorndyke lay yonder on the blood-stained flags, dying hard. She was kneeling beside him—a bleeding, mangled heap, crushed almost out of semblance of humanity.
"Laurence! Laurence!" she gasped. "Oh, Heaven! not dead! not dead!"
"Not dead, madam," a pitying voice answered—"not dead yet. I am a physician, and I tell you so. He is insensible at present, but consciousness will return. You know him?"
"Know him!" She looked into the grave, compassionate face with dazed eyes. "Know Laurence Thorndyke? What is it you intend doing with him?" she asked.
The medical man shrugged his shoulders.
"Send him to Bellevue, I suppose, unless some friend steps forward and takes charge of him. They won't want him there"—signifying the boarding-house—"again. And if he is sent to a hospital, I wouldn't give much for his chances of life."