“You see,” continued the footman, “I only heard a little of their conversation. Dr McTougall was saying when I come into the room: ‘Well, Mr Mellon,’ he said, ‘you must of necessity remain where you are, and you could not, let me tell you, be in better quarters. I will look after your patients till you are able to go about again—which won’t be long, I hope—and I’ll make a particular note of your old woman, and send her some wine and things immediately.’ I suppose he meant you, ma’am,” added the footman, “but having to leave the room again owing to some of the children howling for jam and pudding, I heard no more.”
Having thus delivered himself of his tale and parcel, the tall footman took his leave with many expressions of good-will.
“Now, granny,” remarked young Slidder, as he untied the parcel, and spread its contents on the small deal table, “I’ve got a wague suspicion that the ’ouse w’ich ’as gone to hashes is the wery ’ouse in w’ich Dr Mellon put his little dog last night. ’Cause why? Ain’t it the same identical street, an’ the same side o’ the street, and about the same part o’ the street? An’ didn’t both him and me forgit to ask the name o’ the people o’ the ’ouse, or to look at the number—so took up was we with partin’ from Punch? Wot more nat’ral than for him to go round on ’is way back to look at the ’ouse—supposin’ he was too late to call? Then, didn’t that six-footer say a terrier dog was reskooed from the lower premises? To be sure there’s many a terrier dog in London, but then didn’t he likewise say that the gov’ness o’ the family is a pretty gal? Wot more likely than that she’s my young lady? All that, you see, granny, is what the magistrates would call presumptuous evidence. But I’ll go and inquire for myself this wery evenin’ w’en you’re all settled an comf’rable, an’ w’en I’ve got Mrs Jones to look arter you.”
That evening, accordingly, when Robin Slidder—as I shall now call him—was away making his inquiries, Dr McTougall called on Mrs Willis. She was very weak and low at the time. The memory of her lost Edie had been heavy upon her, and she felt strangely disinclined to talk. The kindly doctor did not disturb her more than was sufficient to fully investigate her case.
When about to depart he took Mrs Jones into the passage.
“Now, my good woman,” he said, “I hope you will see the instructions you heard me give to Mrs Willis carried out. She is very low, but with good food and careful nursing may do well. Can you give her much of your time?”
“La, sir! yes. I’m a lone woman, sir, with nothin’ to do but take care of myself; an’ I’m that fond of Mrs Willis—she’s like my own mother.”
“Very good. And what of this boy who has come to live with her? D’you think he is steady—to be depended on?”
“Indeed I do, sir!” replied Mrs Jones, with much earnestness. “Though he did come from nowheres in partiklar, an’ don’t b’long to nobody, he’s a good boy, is little Slidder, and a better nurse you’ll not find in all the hospitals.”
“I wish I had found him at home. Will you give him this card, and tell him to call on me to-morrow morning between eight and nine? Let him ask particularly for me—Dr McTougall. I’m not in my own house, but in a friend’s at present; I was burnt out of my house last night.”