Dr. Jakes was sitting up, spitting with vigor and astonishment. He had taken a heroic dose of hair-raising restoratives on the head of a poisonous amount of whisky, and his palate was a moldering ruin. But the clearness of his faculties left nothing to be desired.
"Who 's that?" he demanded at sight of Margaret. "Miss Harding. How do you come to be out here at this time?"
"You should time your fits more decently, doctor," answered Margaret coolly.
Mrs. Jakes hastened to explain more acceptably. "I was frightened, Eustace. You looked so bad—and these fits are terrible. So I asked Miss Harding if she wouldn't come and help me."
"A patient," said the doctor. He turned over and rose stiffly to his feet, dust-stained all over. He stood before her awkwardly.
"I am unfortunate," he said. "You are in my care and this is what happens. It is my misfortune—and my fault. You 'll go back to bed now, Miss Harding, please."
"Sure there 's nothing more you want?" inquired Margaret.
"At once, please," he repeated. "In the morning—but go at once now."
On the stoep she paused to listen to them following after her and heard a portion of Mrs. Jakes' excuses to her husband.
"You looked so dreadful, Eustace, and I was frightened. And then, you 're so heavy, and I suppose I was tired, and to-night I couldn't quite manage by myself, dear."