CHAPTER III.
A FELLOW-SUFFERER.
One night, a few minutes after nine, Douglas was returning home along one of the badly-lit little thoroughfares in the Borough, when he saw the figure of a woman slowly subside on to the pavement in front of him. She did not fall; she trembled on to her knees as it were, and then lay prone—near a doorstep. Well, he had grown familiar with the sights of London streets; but even if the woman were drunk, as he imagined, he would lift her up, until some policeman came along.
He went forward. It was not a woman, but a young girl of about seventeen or so, who did not seem a drunken person.
'My lass, what is the matter with ye?' he said, kneeling down to get hold of her.
'Oh, I am so ill—I am so ill!' the girl moaned, apparently to herself.
He tried to raise her. She was quite white, and almost insensible. Then she seemed to come to; she struggled up a bit, and sought to support herself by the handle of the door.
'I shall be all right,' she gasped. 'I am quite well. Don't tell them. I am quite well—it was my knees that gave way——'
'Where do ye live, my lass?' said he, taking hold of her arm to support her; for he thought she was going to sink to the ground again.
'Number twelve.'