Within the girl's breast something deep was stirring—something unfamiliar—not pain—not pity—yet resembling both, perhaps. She had no other standard of comparison.
After she reached home she called up the Samaritan Hospital for information, and learned that the man was suffering from the effects of alcohol and chloral—the latter probably an overdose self-administered—because he had not been robbed. Miss Erith also learned that there were five hundred dollars in new United States banknotes in his pockets, some English sovereigns, a number of Dutch and Danish silver pieces, and a new cheque-book on the Schuyler National Bank, in which was written what might be his name.
"Will he live?" inquired Miss Erith, solicitous, as are people concerning the fate of anything they have helped to rescue.
"He seems to be in no danger," came the answer. "Are you interested in the patient, Miss Erith?"
"No—that is—yes. Yes, I am interested."
"Shall we communicate with you in case any unfavourable symptoms appear?"
"Please do!"
"Are you a relative or friend?"
"N-no. I am very slightly interested—in his recovery. Nothing more."
"Very well. But we do not find his name in any directory. We have attempted to communicate with his family, but nobody of that name claims him. You say you are personally interested in the young man?"