do now,” he announced.
Tavernake nodded. He was amazed at his own sense of relief.
“I am glad,” he declared.
The doctor joined them, his black bag in his hand, prepared for departure. He addressed himself to Tavernake as the responsible person.
“The young lady will be all right now,” he said, “but she may be rather queer for a day or two. Fortunately, she made the usual mistake of people who are ignorant of medicine and its effects—she took enough poison to kill a whole household. You had better take care of her, young man,” he added dryly. “She'll be getting into trouble if she tries this sort of thing again.”
“Will she need any special attention during the next few days?” Tavernake asked. “The circumstances under which I brought her here are a little unusual, and I am not quite sure—”
“Take her home to bed,” the doctor interrupted, “and you'll find she'll sleep it off. She seems to have a splendid constitution, although she has let herself run down. If you need any further advice and your own medical man is not available, I will come and see her if you send for me. Camden, my name is; telephone number 734 Gerrard.”
“I should be glad to know the amount of your fee, if you please,” Tavernake said.
“My fee is two guineas,” the doctor answered.
Tavernake paid him and he went away. Already the shadow of the tragedy was passing. The chemist had joined his assistant and was busy dispensing drugs behind his counter.
“You can go in to the young lady, if you like,” he remarked to Tavernake. “I dare say she'll feel better to have some one with her.”
Tavernake passed slowly into the inner room, closing the door behind him. He was scarcely prepared for so piteous a sight. The girl's face was white and drawn as she lay upon the couch to which they had lifted her. The fighting spirit was dead; she was in a state of absolute and complete collapse. She opened her eyes at his coning, but closed them again almost immediately—less, it seemed, from any consciousness of his presence than from sheer exhaustion.
“I am glad that you are better,” he whispered crossing the room to her side.
“Thank you,” she murmured almost inaudibly.
Tavernake stood looking down upon her, and his sense of perplexity increased. Stretched on the hard horsehair couch she seemed, indeed, pitifully thin and younger than her years. The scowl, which had passed from her face, had served in some measure as a disguise.
“We shall have to leave here in a few minutes,” he said, softly. “They will want to close the shop.”
“I am so sorry,” she faltered, “to have given you all this trouble. You must send me to a hospital or the workhouse—anywhere.”
“You are sure that there are no friends to whom I can send?” he asked.
“There is no one!”
She closed her eyes and Tavernake sat quite still on the end of her couch, his elbow upon his knee, his head resting upon his hand. Presently, the rush of customers having ceased, the chemist came in.
“I think, if I were you, I should take her home now,” he remarked. “She'll probably drop off to sleep very soon and wake up much stronger. I have made up a prescription here in case of exhaustion.”
Tavernake stared at the man. Take her home! His sense of humor was faint enough but he found himself trying to imagine the faces of Mrs. Lawrence or Mrs. Fitzgerald if he should return with her to the boardinghouse at such an hour.
“I suppose you know where she lives?” the chemist inquired curiously.
“Of course,” Tavernake assented. “You are quite right. I dare say she is strong enough now to walk as far as the pavement.”
He paid the bill for the medicines, and they lifted her from the couch. Between them she walked slowly into the outer shop. Then she began to drag on their arms and she looked up at the chemist a little piteously.
“May I sit down for a moment?” she begged. “I feel faint.”
They placed her in one of the cane chairs facing the door. The chemist mixed her some sal volatile.
“I am sorry,” she murmured, “so sorry. In a few minutes—I shall be better.”
Outside, the throng of pedestrians had grown less, but from the great restaurant opposite a constant stream of motor-cars and carriages was slowly bringing away the supper guests. Tavernake stood at the door, watching them idly. The traffic was momentarily blocked and almost opposite to him a motor-car, the simple magnificence of which filled him with wonder, had come to a standstill. The chauffeur and footman both wore livery which was almost white. Inside a swinging vase of flowers was suspended from the roof. A man and a woman leaned back in luxurious easy-chairs. The man was dark and had the look of a foreigner. The woman was very fair. She wore a long ermine cloak and a tiara of pearls.
Tavernake, whose interest in the passing throngs was entirely superficial, found himself for some reason curiously attracted by this glimpse into a world of luxury of which he knew nothing; attracted, too, by the woman's delicate face with its uncommon type of beauty. Their eyes met as he stood there, stolid and motionless, framed in the doorway. Tavernake continued to stare, unmindful, perhaps unconscious, of the rudeness of his action. The woman, after a moment, glanced away at the shopwindow. A sudden thought seemed to strike her. She spoke through the tube at her side and turned to her companion. Meanwhile, the footman, leaning from his place, held out his arm in warning and the car was slowly backed to the side of the pavement. The lady felt for a moment in a bag of white satin which lay upon the round table in front of her, and handed a slip of paper through the open window to the servant who had already descended and was standing waiting. He came at once towards the shop, passing Tavernake, who remained in the door-way.
“Will you make this up at once, please?” he directed, handing the paper across to the chemist.
The chemist took it in his hand and turned away mechanically toward the dispensing room. Suddenly he paused, and, looking back, shook his head.
“For whom is this prescription required?” he asked.
“For my mistress,” the man answered. “Her name is there.”
“Where is she?”
“Outside; she is waiting for it.”
“If she really wants this made up to-night,” the chemist declared, “she must come in and sign the book.”
The footman looked across the counter, for a moment, a little blankly.
“Am I to tell her that?” he inquired. “It's only a sleeping draught. Her regular chemist makes it up all right.”
“That may be,” the man behind the counter replied, “but, you see, I am not her regular chemist. You had better go and tell her so.”
The footman departed upon his errand without a glance at the girl who was sitting within a few feet of him.
