"More fool he," said the doctor brusquely. "What did you give him to eat or drink?"
"All that I could persuade him to take was a little brandy and water."
"Well, I can do nothing for him till he wakes," said the doctor as he rose to his feet. "I may tell you that he appears, so far as I can judge at present, to be in about as bad a way as it is possible for a man to be. I don't think it advisable to disturb him, and this sleep may do him good. I will call again about ten o'clock. Should he awake before then send me word, and till I arrive keep on giving him a teaspoonful of brandy every few minutes." With that the doctor went.
Jessie was kneeling by Van Duren's head, and she never moved to let the doctor out. Pringle, with his red, watery eyes, and doubled-up back, still sat on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin in the palms of his hands, looking like a ghoul waiting for its prey. Suddenly his daughter turned her head, and their eyes met.
"Look on your work and be satisfied," she said.
"I am looking, and I am satisfied," was the grim reply.
"And now," said the woman, speaking quietly, but with the same look on her face that had already cowed him, "you had better leave me, or there'll be harm done. I know there will. If you hadn't been my father I should have stabbed you to the heart before now for what you have done here"--pointing to the dying man. "Go! go! or worse will come of it."
Pringle cowered before her, and muttering something to the effect that a good wash would freshen him up, he slunk out of the room and shuffled upstairs, coughing painfully as he went.
Jessie resumed her watch by the unconscious man, bathing his brows now and again with a little vinegar. Presently he opened his eyes and gazed up wonderingly into her face. Then he tried to raise himself on his elbow, but fell back with a groan. Jessie gave him a little brandy, and that seemed to revive him.
"Where am I; what has happened?" he murmured.