Inspector Weymouth was standing by the writing-table. My mind cleared rapidly now, and standing up, but without releasing the girl’s hands, so that I drew her up beside me, I said:
“Weymouth—where is—?”
“He’s waiting to see you, Doctor,” replied the inspector.
A pang, almost physical, struck at my heart.
“Poor, dear old Smith!” I cried, with a break in my voice.
Dr. Gray, a neighboring practitioner, appeared in the doorway at the moment that I spoke the words.
“It’s all right, Petrie,” he said, reassuringly; “I think we took it in time. I have thoroughly cauterized the wounds, and granted that no complication sets in, he’ll be on his feet again in a week or two.”
I suppose I was in a condition closely bordering upon the hysterical. At any rate, my behavior was extraordinary. I raised both my hands above my head.
“Thank God!” I cried at the top of my voice, “thank God!—thank God!”
“Thank Him, indeed,” responded the musical voice of Aziz. He spoke with all the passionate devoutness of the true Moslem.