all possible haste he set out on his journey.
He gave orders to his driver to go to Miss Rogers' residence by the shortest route possible.
At that very moment, in another part of the city, a woman who had once been young and beautiful lay dying. The room in which she lay was magnificent in its costly hangings; the lace draperies that hung from the windows represented a fortune, the carpets and rugs which covered the floor were of the costliest description. Rare paintings and the richest of bric-a-brac occupied the walls and other available places. Even the lace counterpane on the bed represented the expenditure of a vast sum of money. But the woman who lay moaning there in mortal pain would have given all to have purchased one hour of ease.
"Has the doctor come yet, Mary?" she asked.
"No," replied her faithful attendant, who bent over her. "But he can not be long now, my lady. It is several hours since we telegraphed for him, and I have telephoned for him every hour since. At the office they say that he has already started for here."
"Are those carriage wheels? Go to the window, Mary, and see."
The attendant glided noiselessly to the heavily draped window and drew aside the hangings.
"No," she answered, gently; "he has not yet come."
"Something must have happened, Mary," half-sobbed the sufferer; "I am sure of it."
Ay, something out of the usual had happened to Doctor Gardiner.
As his handsome brougham turned into Canal Street, the doctor, in looking from the window, noticed a young girl hurrying along the street.
There was something about the symmetrical figure that caused the doctor to look a second time.
He said to himself that she must be young; and a feeling of pity thrilled his heart to see one so young threading the streets at that hour of the night.
So many people were making their way through the streets that the driver was only able to proceed slowly. And thus the young girl, who had quite unconsciously attracted the doctor's attention, kept pace with the vehicle.
Once, as Jay Gardiner caught sight of her face, he felt as though an electric shock had suddenly passed through him. For a moment he was almost spell-bound. Where had he seen that face? Then suddenly it occurred to him that it was the fac-simile of the picture he had bought abroad.
And as he gazed with spell-bound attention, much to his disgust he saw the young woman stop in front of a wine-room and peer in at one of the windows. This action disgusted the young doctor immeasurably.
"How sad that one so fair as she should have gone wrong in the morning of life," he thought.
Suddenly she turned and attempted to dart across the street. But in that moment her foot slipped, and she was precipitated directly under the horses' hoofs.
A cry broke from the lips of the doctor, and was echoed by the man on the box.
"Are you hurt?" cried Doctor Gardiner, springing from his seat and bending over the prostrate figure of the girl.
"No, no!" cried the girl, in the saddest, sweetest voice he had ever heard. "They must not find me here when they come to the door; they will be so angry!" she said, springing to her feet.
At that moment there was a commotion in the wine-room, the door of which had just been opened.
As the girl turned to look in that direction, she saw a man pushed violently into the street.
"Oh, it is father – it is father!" cried the young girl, wildly, shaking herself free from the doctor's detaining hand. "Oh, they have killed my father! See! he is lying on the pavement dead, motionless! Oh, God, pity me! I am left alone in the wide, wide world!"
CHAPTER VII
Doctor Gardiner sprung forward quickly.
"You are unnecessarily alarmed, my dear young lady," he said. "The gentleman is only stunned."
So it proved to be; for he had scarcely ceased speaking when the man struggled to his feet and looked about him in dazed bewilderment.
"Oh, papa, darling, have they killed you!" sobbed the young girl, springing wildly forward and throwing her arms about the dust-begrimed man.
"I don't know, Bernardine," he answered in a shrill voice. "I am sure every bone in my body is broken – quite sure."
"No," interrupted Doctor Gardiner, pitying the young girl in her distress; "you are only bruised. I am a doctor; if you will give me your address, I will look in and give you something when I return this way. I may return in an hour's time, I may be as late as to-morrow morning."
"We – we – could not pay for the services of a doctor, sir," sobbed the young girl. "If there is anything the matter, I will have to take poor papa to the hospital."
"I would never go to the hospital, Bernardine," whined the man in a low tone. "That will be the last of me if I ever have to go there."
"I would make no charge whatever," said Doctor Gardiner. "My services would be rendered gratis," he added, earnestly.
The young girl looked at him with tears shining in her great dark eyes.
"We live in the tenement just around the corner, sir," she said, "on the sixth floor. My father is David Moore, the basket-maker."
Doctor Gardiner dared not remain another moment talking with them, and with a hasty bow he re-entered his carriage. But during the remainder of his journey he could think of nothing but the sad, beautiful face of Bernardine Moore, the basket-maker's daughter.
"What in the name of Heaven has come over me!" he muttered. "I have seen a face, and it seems as though I have stepped through the gates of the old world and entered a new one."
He collected his thoughts with a start, as the carriage reached its destination.
He had not realized how quickly the time had passed. He resolutely put all thoughts from him as he walked up the steps of the mansion before which he found himself.
The door opened before he could touch the bell.
"We have been waiting for you, doctor," said the low-voiced attendant who had come to the door.
He followed her through the magnificent hall-way, and up the polished stairs to the apartment above, where he knew his patient was awaiting him.
The wan face lying against the pillow lighted up as the doctor entered. His bright, breezy presence was as good as medicine.
"You!" he cried, advancing to the couch. "Why, this will never do, Miss Rogers! Tut, tut! you are not sick, you do not look it! This is only an excuse to send for me, and you know it. I can see at a glance that you are a long way from being ill, and you know it!" he repeated.
He said it in so hearty a manner and in such apparent good faith, that his words could not help but carry conviction with them.
Already the poor lady began to feel that she was not nearly so ill as she had believed herself to be.
But the doctor, bending over her, despite his reassuring smile and light badinage, realized with alarm that his patient was in great danger,
