"Come Tom," she said. "Come and have a drink of water."
She led him out of the hotel to the pump at the corner of the street. Tom drank thirstily. She pumped water on his hands, and bathed his burning face in it. The cold water and the fresh air began to clear his brain.
"What time is it?" he asked her.
"Nearly morning," she said. "About half-past three, I think," and Tom knew even in the darkness that she had lost more teeth. It was Mrs. Skinner.
"Tom," she said, "did you see Skinner in there? I came down to get him—I want him—the child is dead an hour ago." She spoke hurriedly.
Tom remembered now. Yes, he had seen Skinner, but not lately; it was a long, long time ago.
"Now Tom, go home," she said kindly. "This is bad work for you, my dear boy. Stop it now, dear Tom, while you can. It will kill you, body and soul."
A thought struggled in Tom's dull brain. There was something he wanted to say to her which must be said; but she was gone.
He drank again from the cup that hung beside the pump. Where did he get this burning thirst, and his head, how it pounded! She had told him to go home. Well, why wasn't he at home? What was he doing here?
Slowly his memory came back—he had come for the doctor; and the doctor was to be back in an hour, and now it was nearly morning, didn't she say?