"Who else on the premises?"

"The servant-girl. Our boy. My brother, a medical student, lives here, but he has not yet returned. He is at a friend's house--a little party."

"And you've had a party here, Miss?"

"Oh, no; we never have company."

"That'll do, Miss. Now for the surgery. One moment: your name, please?"

"Richmond Chartley."

"That'll do. Rum name," he muttered; and following the lady, who led the way with a chamber candlestick in past the open door of a gloomy-looking dining-room, constable John Whyley found himself at the end of a passage to the left, in front of a half-glass door, whose panes were covered on the other side by a thick dark blind.

"My father's surgery," said the lady in answer to an inquiring look.

The constable nodded, and tried the door twice before kneeling down and holding his light to the key hole.

"Key in," he said gruffly, "locked inside. Who's likely to be here?"

"My father. He always sits in the consulting-room beyond at night-- studying."

Another short nod, and the constable rapped loudly. No response.

He rapped again, with the same result. Then he drew a long breath, and the man showed that he possessed feeling as well as decision.

"I don't want to alarm you, Miss, but I ought to force open this door."

"But you do alarm me, man. Yes, you are right. No! let me come."

She rapped smartly on the door.

"Father! Father! Are you here?"

Still no reply; and she drew back, looking wildly in the constable's eyes, while her hands seemed as if drawn together to clasp each other and cheek the nervous trembling and be of mutual support.

"Yes," she said, "force it open. Stop! break one of the panes."

The constable leaned his shoulder against the pane nearest the lock, and there was a sharp crackling noise, the splintered glass being caught by the blind inside; but as the man thrust his hand through the great hole he had made, to draw the blind on one side, a fragment or two fell, making a musical tinkling.

The man's next act was to take his lantern from his belt, and pass it through, directing the light in all directions, as he peered through the glass above, and then he withdrew the light with a low "Ha!"

"What can you see?"

"Hold hard, please, Miss, and keep back. This isn't ladies' work. I want some help here."

"Then something has happened?"

"Well, Miss, seeing what I did see to-night, it may be nothing worse than a drop too much, but it looks ugly."

"Who is it? My father?"

"Can't say, Miss. Elderly gent with bald head."

"Oh, what you say is possible! Quick! burst open the door!"

The constable placed his shoulder to the door, but drew back with an angry gesture.

"Of course!" he muttered, and thrusting his arm through, he reached the lock, turned the key, and the door swung open with a dismal creak.

"Now, Miss, I'll see first, and come back and tell you."

"Man! do you think I am a child?" was the sharp reply; and rushing by him, the speaker passed into the room, and went down upon her knees directly beside a figure in a shabby old dressing-gown, lying face downward on the floor.

"Is he--"

"Quick! turn on that gas."

The constable took a step to obey, and kicked against something which rattled as it flew forward, and struck the wainscot board, while the next moment a dim, blue spark of light in a ground-glass burst into a flame, and lit up a dingy-looking, old-fashioned surgery just as the kneeling girl uttered a piteous cry.

"That's enough," muttered the constable, stooping and picking up the object he had kicked against--a short whalebone-handled life-preserver, and slipping it into his pocket. "Tells tales. Now, Miss," he continued aloud, bending over the prostrate figure. "Hah! yes! I thought as much."

It was plain enough. A slight thread of blood was trickling slowly from a spot on the smooth glistening bald head of the prostrate man, while as, with a moan of anguish, the girl thrust her arm softly beneath his neck, and raised the head, the mark of another blow was visible above the temple.

"Now, Miss, I can't leave you like this. Let me stay while you go for help. We must have some one here."

These words seemed to rouse the girl into fierce action, and she gently supported the wounded head, her hand sought the injured man's wrist, and seized it in a professional way.

"Man," she cried with angry energy, "while we are seeking help he may-- Yes; still beating. Quick! Open that door. No, no; that's the way into the street! The other door--the consulting-room. Prop it open with a chair. We must get him on to the sofa, and do something at once."

"Yes, Miss; but a doctor."

"I am a doctor's daughter, man, and know what to do. Quick!"

"Well, of all--" muttered the constable, as he proceeded to the door in question; and then, without finishing the sentence, "Well, she is a plucked one!"

He stepped into a shabbily furnished room, in whose grate a fire was just aglow; and as the door swung to, and he cast the light round to seek for a chair, he caught sight of a vacant couch, a table with bottle, glasses, and sugar thereon, and the cover drawn all on one side, so that the glasses were within an ace of being off; and then, drawing in his breath, he stepped to the other side of the table, and held down the light, which fell upon a drawn and ghastly face, while, hidden by the table-cover, there lay the figure of a well-dressed man.

"Fit," muttered the constable, bending lower. "No; I ain't a doctor, but I know what that means."

He stepped back quickly, and shut the door after him.

"No, no! prop it open."

"Let it be, Miss," he replied sternly. "There's something else wrong there."

The girl stared up at him aghast.

"Here's a sofy will do," he continued, pointing to a kind of settee, cushioned, and with a common moreen valance hanging down, while a rough kind of pillow was fastened to one end. "You get up, Miss, and lift a bit. I won't hurt him more than I can help. That's it. Sorry, Miss, I thought what I did."