“No one but that poor girl,” the Doctor sighed. “I liked her. I am sorry, also I am ashamed. I pride myself upon some knowledge of character, and I have been a fool. In this servant I thought I had found a rare type of loyalty, an inborn refinement and delicacy that sprang from a good heart, making no account of the promptings of inherited vice, and untouched by the degrading environment of her youth. Such natures are met, not often, but I thought that hers was of that description. Well—I have had many such disappointments. We will talk no more about it. Come, Martin!”
He went to Dr. Barnhelm, who was seated at the table in an attitude of utter dejection. “The detective may be able to make her confess; if not, we will go to the bank again to-morrow.”
Dr. Barnhelm looked up wearily.
“There seems to be some curious fate hanging over my machine, Paul. I feel to-night that my work has been a failure.”
“A failure! You are dreaming, Martin. See what your work has done.” Dr. Crossett pointed to Lola indignantly. “She was dead, and you brought her back to life.”
“What do you mean?” Lola sprang to her feet, facing them, her eyes blazing and her face livid. “What do you mean?”
“Lola!”
“Hush, Paul! She does not know!”
“What is it that I don’t know?” There was an awful terror in her voice and as she faced them, clutching fiercely at her heart, they saw the blood go from her lips, and could hear her teeth chattering together convulsively, so that she could hardly form her words. “What do you mean when you say that I was dead?” She tottered toward them, her arms outstretched. “No! Don’t touch me. Why did you say that I was dead? I was hurt, I was unconscious, but I was not dead! Why don’t you speak? If I was dead how could I be here? Oh, my God! Why did you say that I was dead?”
“Lola! My dear! You do not understand.”