As Dr. Crossett spoke, from below, through the open window, came the harsh clang of an ambulance bell, and these two surgeons both stopped and listened, their professional instinct unconsciously aroused.
“There is a sound, Martin,” he continued, “that is understood in every country in the world.”
“The ambulance stopped here at this house,” said Dr. Barnhelm, with a trace of nervousness, and he stepped to the window and looked out. “There is a crowd collecting. I wonder——”
DOCTOR BARNHELM PERFECTS HIS MACHINE FOR RESTORING ANIMATION.
The door burst open, and John Dorris entered the room; as they saw his face, they knew at once that the news he brought was bad news, and both being brave men, they turned calmly and steadily to meet it.
“Doctor,” he panted hoarsely, “Lola—Lola!”
“Well, John?”
It was the father who spoke, and his cool, even tone did much to steady the boy.
“She,” he continued brokenly, “she—they—they are bringing her! There was an accident, she—she——” He stopped as Dick Fenway entered, so pale and wild, that Dr. Crossett, to whom he was a stranger, stepped forward, as though to offer to support him, but stopped suddenly as Fenway cried out: “I did it! It was my fault! As she crossed the Avenue I turned my car, thinking she would stop, but she hated me, and she wouldn’t stop, and—and—I killed her.”