[CHAPTER XIX.]
COMMOTION.
Meanwhile Dr. Davenal was walking along the streets of the town, lying so calm, so still in the moonlight. Not with any hurried tread; rather with a slow one. In his restlessness of mind, he had come out sooner than he need have come; but bodily action is a relief to mental anguish.
"Goodnight, doctor! or rather morning--for that's what it is."
The salutation came from one of the general practitioners of the town, a hard-worked apothecary, whose business took him abroad a good deal at night. He was hastening up a side street, near the town-hall, and Dr. Davenal had not observed him.
"Ah, is it you, Smithson? A fine night, is it not?"
"All nights are pretty near the same to me," returned Mr. Smithson. "I see too much of them. I wish folks would be so accommodating as to choose the day to be ill in. I don't know who'd be one of us. It's not often that we see you abroad at night, though, doctor?"
"Not often. We can't help it sometimes, you know. Goodnight."
They were bound different ways. The doctor had walked on his, when Mr. Smithson came running back.
"Dr. Davenal, what is the truth about Lady Oswald? I hear she's dead."