"Certainly. Shall I administer some? The lady is—ill?"
"Very ill. Will you kindly take charge of her while I go to the hotel and make arrangements for our reception there? This lady is my wife. She was taken suddenly ill on the road, and I am a stranger here."
Doctor Lynne was hurriedly searching the old-fashioned corner cupboard for brandy and other restoratives.
"I will do all in my power, certainly," he returned. "Have you come far?"
He turned swiftly as he spoke and found that the stranger had disappeared. The physician rushed to the door and peered out into the night and storm. The carriage had disappeared also; there was no one to be seen. A strange oppression settled slowly down upon Doctor Lynne's spirits; he closed the door and went back to the fire. The silent figure upon the sofa had neither moved nor stirred; the face was hidden from view by a thick veil. But as the doctor paused before the fire to measure some brandy into the glass in his hand, the silence of the room was broken by an unexpected sound—the cry of a little child.
With a start of surprise Doctor Lynne hastened to the sofa, and saw for the first time that the sick woman held a child in her arms. He stooped and attempted to remove it—a lovely, smiling little creature of some nine or ten months.
"Allow me, madame," he began, gently. "The babe is too heavy, and you are ill. What is the trouble?"
No answer. No sound to break the silence of the stormy night. Only, off in the distance the shriek of an engine as the down express—having halted as usual at the station—the brief pause which was considered long enough for a dead-and-alive place like Chester—dashed madly on its way once more. Doctor Lynne's eyes sought the silent, recumbent form of the woman, and something in her attitude and the strange and inexplicable silence that she maintained struck to his heart with an uneasy sensation.
"Madame," he repeated, venturing to lay his hand upon her shoulder, "you are ill—suffering. Tell me, where is the pain?"