"It's the doctor," she said. "He's had a—a fit, my dear. He thought a little fresh air would do him good and he went out. And the fact is, I can't quite manage to get him in by myself."
"Eh?" Margaret stared. "Where is he?" she asked.
"He got as far as the road and then he fell," said Mrs. Jakes. "I wouldn't dream of troubling you, my dear, but I 'm—I 'm rather tired to-night and I really couldn't manage by myself. And then I remembered we were friends."
"Not till then?" asked Margaret. "You don't care to wake Mr. Ford? He wouldn't misunderstand."
"Oh, no—please," begged Mrs. Jakes, terrified. "No, please. I 'd rather manage alone, somehow—I would, really."
"You can't do that," said Margaret, decidedly. She sat a space of moments in thought. The doctor's fit did not deceive her at all; she knew that for one of the euphemisms that made Mrs. Jakes' life livable to her. He was drunk and incapable upon the road before the house, and Mrs. Jakes, helpless and frightened, had waked her in the middle of the night to help bring the drunken man in and hide him.
"I 'll help you," she said suddenly. "Don't you worry any more, Mrs. Jakes; we 'll manage it somehow. Let me get some things on and we 'll go out."
"It 's very kind of you, my dear," said Mrs. Jakes humbly. "You 'll put some warm things on, won't you? The doctor would never forgive me if I let you catch cold."
Margaret was fumbling for her stockings.
"I 'm not very strong, you know," she suggested. "I 'll do all I can, but hadn't we better call Fat Mary? She 's strong enough for anything."