"I think if I was madam I'd come back."

"But what's happened? Tell me that first."

"It's Mr. Rash."

"Yes, I know it's Mr. Rash. But what is it? Tell me quickly, for G.o.d's sake."

"'E's been 'it."

Her utterance was as nearly as possible a cry. "But he hasn't been _killed_?"

"Madam'd find 'im alive--if she 'urried."

When Letty rose from her knees she was strong. She was calm, too, and competent. She further surprised Miss Towell by the way in which she took command.

"I must hurry. They want me at once. Would you mind helping me to dress?"

Chapter XXV

"The queer thing about it, miss," Steptoe was saying to Barbara, "is that I didn't 'ear no noise. My winder is just above the front door, two floors up, and it was open. I always likes an open winder, especially when the weather begins to get warm--makes it 'ealthier like, and so----"

"Yes, but tell me just how he is."

"That's what I'm comin' to, miss. The minute I see what an awful styte we was in, I says, Miss Walbrook, she'll 'ave to know, I says; and so I called up. Well, as I was a-tellin you, miss, I couldn't sleep all night, 'ardly not any, thinkin of all what 'ad 'appened in the 'ouse, in the course of a few months, as you might sye--and madam run awye--and Mr. Rash 'e not 'ome--and it one o'clock and lyter. Not but what 'e's often lyter than that, only last night I 'ad that kind of a feelin' which you'll get when you know things is not right, and you don't 'ardly know 'ow you know it."

"Yes, Steptoe," she interposed, eagerly; "but is he conscious now?

That's what I want to hear about."

Steptoe's expression of grief lay in working up to a dramatic climax dramatically. He didn't understand the hurried leaps and bounds by which you took the tragic on the skip, as if it were not portentous.

In his response to Miss Walbrook there was a hint of irritation, and perhaps of rebuke.

"I couldn't sye what 'e is now, miss, as the doctor and the nurse is with 'im, and won't let n.o.body in till they decides whether 'e's to live or die." Rocking himself back and forth in his chair he moaned in stricken antic.i.p.ation. "If 'e goes, I shan't be long after 'im. I may linger a bit, but the good Lord won't move me on too soon."

Barbara curbed her impatience to reach the end, going back to the beginning. "Well, then, was it you who found 'im?"

"It was this wye, miss. Knowin' 'e wasn't in the 'ouse, I kep' goin'

to my winder and listenin'--and then goin' back to bed agyne--I couldn't tell you 'ow many times; and then, if you'd believe it I must 'ave fell asleep. No; I can't believe as I was asleep. I just seemed to come to, like, and as I laid there wonderin' what time it was, seems to me as if I 'eard a kind of a snore, like, not in the 'ouse, but comin' up from the street."

"What time was that?"

"That'd be about 'alf past one. Well, up I gets and creeps to the winder, and sure enough the snore come right up from the steps. Seems to me, too, I could see somethink layin' there, all up and down the steps, just as if it 'ad been dropped by haccident like. My blood freezes. I slips into my thick dressin' gown--no, it was my thin dressin' gown--I always keeps two--one for winter and one for summer--and this spring bein' so early like----"

"But in the end you got down stairs."

"If I didn't, miss, 'ow could I 'a' found 'im? I ain't one to be afryde of dynger, not even 'ere in New York, where you can be robbed and murdered without 'ardly knowin' it--and the police that slow about follerin' up a clue----"

"And what happened when you'd opened the front door?"

"I didn't open it at once, miss. I put my hear to the crack and listened. And there it was, a long kind of snore, like--only it wasn't just what you'd call a snore. It was more like this." He drew a deep, rasping, stertorous breath. "Awful, it was, miss, just like somebody in liquor. 'It's liquor,' I says, and not wantin' to be mixed up in no low company I wasn't for openin' the door at all----"

"But you did?"

"Not till I'd gone 'alf wye upstairs and down agyne. I'm like that. I often thinks I'll not do a thing, and then I'll sye to myself, 'Now, perhaps I'd better, and so it was that time. 'E's out, I says, and who knows but what 'e's fell in a fynt like?' So back I goes, and I peeps out a little bit--just my nose out, as you might sye, not knowin' but what if there was low company----"

"When did you find out who it was?"

"I knowed the 'at, like. It was that 'at what 'e bought afore 'e bought the last one. No; I don't know but what 'e's bought two since 'e bought that one--a soft felt, and a cowboy what he never wore but once or twice because it wasn't becomin'. You'll 'ave noticed, miss, that 'e 'ad one o' them fyces what don't look well in nothink rakish--a real gentleman's fyce 'e 'ad--and them cowboy 'ats----"

"Well, when you saw that hat, what did you do?"

"For quite a spell I didn't do nothink. I was all blood-curdled, as you might sye. But by and by I creeps out, and down the steps, and there 'e was, all 'uddled every wye----"

His lip trembled. In trying to go on he produced only a few incoherent sounds. Reaching for his handkerchief, he blew his nose, before being able to say more.

"Well, the first thing I says to myself, miss, was, Is 'e dead? It was a terrible thing to sye of one that's everythink in the world to me; but seein' 'im there, all crumpled up, with one leg one wye, and the other leg another wye, and a harm throwed out 'elpless like--well, what was I to think? miss--and 'im not aible to sye a word, and me shykin' like a leaf, and out of doors in my thin dressin' gown--if I'd 'ad on my thick one I wouldn't 'a' felt so kind of shymeful like----"

"You might have known he wasn't dead when you heard him breathing."

"I didn't think o' that. I thought as 'e was. And when I see 'is poor harm stretched out so wild like I creeps nearer and nearer, and me 'ardly aible to move--I felt so bad--and I puts my finger on 'is pulse. Might as well 'ave put it on that there fender. Then I looks at 'is fyce and I see blood on 'is lip and 'is cheek. 'Somethink's struck 'im,' I says; and then I just loses consciousness, and puts back my 'ead, as you'll see a dog do when 'e 'owls, and I yells, 'Police!'"

"Oh, you did that, did you?"

"I'm ashymed to sye it, miss, but I did; and who should come runnin'

along but the policeman what in the night goes up and down our beat.

By that time I'd got my 'and on 'is 'eart, and the policeman 'e calls out from a distance, 'Hi, there! What you doin' to that man?' Thought I was murderin' 'im, you see. I says, 'My boy, 'e is, and I'm tryin'

to syve 'is life.' Well, the policeman 'e sees I'm in my dressin'

gown, and don't look as if I'd do 'im any 'arm, so 'e kind o' picks up 'is courage, and blows 'is whistle, and another policeman 'e runs up from the wye of the Havenue. Then when there's two of 'em they ain't afryde no more, so that the first one 'e comes up to me quite bold like, and arsks me who's killed, and what's killed 'im, and I tells 'im 'ow I was layin' awyke, with the winder open, and Mr. Rash bein'

out I couldn't sleep like----"

"How long did they let him lie there?"

"Oh, not long. First they was for callin' a hambulance; but when I tells 'em that 'e's my boy, and lives in my 'ouse, they brings 'im in and we lays 'im on the sofa in the libery, and I rings up Dr. Lancing, and----"

But something in Barbara snapped. She could stand no more. Not to cry out or break down she sprang to her feet. "That'll do, Steptoe. I know now all I need to know. Thank you for telling me. I shall stay here till the doctor or the nurse comes down. If I want you again I'll ring."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "BUT BY AND BY I CREEPS OUT AND DOWN THE STEPS, AND THERE 'E WAS, ALL 'UDDLED EVERY WYE."]

Lashing up and down the drawing-room, wringing her hands and moaning inwardly, Barbara reflected on the speed with which Nemesis had overtaken her. "If he wasn't here--or if he was dead," she had said, "I believe I could be happier." As long as she lived she would hear the curious intonation in Aunt Marion's voice: "He's dead?--after all?" It was in that _after all_ that she read the unspeakable accusation of herself.

Waiting for the doctor was not long. On hearing his step on the stair Barbara went out to meet him. "How is he?" she asked, without wasting time over self-introductions.

"It's a little difficult to say as yet. The case is serious. Just how serious we can't tell to-day--perhaps not to-morrow. I find no trace of fracture of the cranium, or of laceration of the brain; but it's too soon to be sure. Dr. Brace and Dr. Wisdom, who've both been here, are inclined to think that it may be no more than a simple concussion.

We must wait and see."

Relieved to this extent Barbara went on to explain herself. "I'm Miss Walbrook. I was engaged to Mr. Allerton till--till quite recently.