He did not answer, because the old servant, dashed in her upturned face by a stream of water running from the coping, moved her arms feebly and uttered a groan.
“Quick!” said I. “Drop her and crank up the car. I’ll do the rest.”
He obeyed.
I dragged the burdensome weight of my victim, if you will so call her, and thrust it into the interior of the vehicle. Estabrook was already on the chauffeur’s seat; as quickly as I tell it, the car had begun to pick up speed over the wet and slippery street. We flashed by a light or two and I saw that Margaret Murchie’s eyes had lost their stare of unconsciousness.
“Margaret,” said I, “you are all right. Be sensible. There is Mr. Estabrook in front.”
She shook herself convulsively as if to throw off the remnants of the anæsthetic. Then she caught my sleeve.
“Oh, it’s terrible,” she cried. “Ye have taken me away from Julie! Bring me back to her, do you hear? You and Mr. Estabrook—What do ye want of me?”
“Quiet!” I said. “We want you to tell all you know.”
“You want me to tell it? After all these years? And it’s no fault of mine or hers!”
Suddenly she became excited again.