Saying this, Mr Sparks condescended to give his sister a brief nod and left the house.
He had not been gone much more than a couple of hours, when Mrs Crashington, having put little Fred to sleep, was roused from a reverie by the sound of several footsteps outside, followed by a loud ring at the bell; she opened the door quickly, and her husband was borne in and laid on his bed.
“Not dead?” exclaimed the woman in a voice of agony.
“No, missus, not dead,” said David Clazie, “but hardly better, I fear.”
When Maggie looked on the poor bruised form, with garments torn to shreds, and so covered with charcoal, water, lime, and blood, as to be almost an indistinguishable mass, she could not have persuaded herself that he was alive, had not a slight heaving of the broad chest told that life still remained.
“It’s a ’orrible sight, that, missus,” said David Clazie, with a look that seemed strangely stern.
“It is—oh it is—terrible!” said Mrs Crashington, scarce able to suppress a cry.
“Ah, you’d better take a good look at it,” added Clazie, “for it’s your own doing, missus.”
Maggie looked at him in surprise, but he merely advised her to lend a hand to take the clothes off, as the doctor would be round in a minute; so she silently but actively busied herself in such duties as were necessary.
Meanwhile Phil Sparks went about the streets of London attending to the duties of his own particular business. To judge from appearances, it seemed to be rather an easy occupation, for it consisted mainly in walking at a leisurely pace through the streets and thoroughfares, with his hands in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth.