So the doctor, grumbling—for this kind of practice was out of his line—went with him.
They found Braunt anxiously chafing the hands of the girl.
“You’ve been long about it,” he cried, as they entered.
Neither answered, and the doctor went quickly to the bed, with the seemingly callous indifference of a man to whom such scenes are matters of hourly routine. He placed his fingers upon her wrist, bent his ear down to her breast, then put his hand on her smooth white brow.
“Has she been long ill?” he asked, sharply.
“Jessie was always weakly,” answered her father, “and latterly has not been at all well, poor girl.”
“Who has attended her?”
“No one.”
“Oh, well, you know, I can’t grant a death certificate under these circumstances. There will most likely be an inquest.”
“Good God!” shrieked Braunt. “An inquest! You don’t mean to say—you can’t mean it!—Jessie is not dead?”