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 "Yes, sir. I perceived it as I approached the drawing-room—this room. She was on the sofa," he looked over to it, "very pale and dishevelled, only partly conscious."

"Who was Miss Stevens?"

"Her maid. Quite a character. Something like your nurse, only more so."

"What did you do?"

"I felt her pulse, her heart, thought of ."

"You are not a great doctor, are you?" I scoffed lightly.

"Oh! I know my work all right; it's simple enough. You try this drug or the other &hellip;"

"Or none, as in my case."

"That's right."

"And then if the patient does not get better or her relatives get restive, you call in some one else, who makes another shot." There was a twinkle in his eye. I always thought he knew more about medicine than he pretended. "And what did you do for Margaret?" I went on.

"Opened the window, and her dress; waited. The first thing she said was, 'Has he gone?' I did not know to whom she referred, but the maid told me primly: 'Mrs. Capel's publisher has been down for the week-end. He left this morning. She don't know what she's saying.' Margaret opened her eyes, her sweet eyes, dark-irised, the light in them