Chapter VI: Part 6

"No," recommended Miss Bird, who probably felt that she had shown a little too much of her human side, "in those days girls didn't gad about on bicycles and scamper after footballs and cricket balls like so many boys. Nor did they go to the theatre alone with young men. No, in my young days I wasn't even allowed to look out of the window at people passing along the pavement. I was fined a shilling if I did. You may not believe that, but it's true! I was brought up very strictly by an aunt in a country village, and I don't suppose anybody on this earth--except a convict in prison, who deserves all he gets, the rascal!--ever passed such a monotonous existence as I did."

"How long did you live with your aunt?" asked Dora, rather timidly.

"Until I was thirty," replied Miss Bird, "and then she died and left me just enough to live on. And I've been living on that just enough ever since."

Miss Bird's customary conversation consisted of harsh comments on current events or severe criticisms of internal affairs at No. 9. She had never been so communicative regarding her past life before.

Dora employed herself with her sewing for a time, and then observed: "I am afraid you cannot have been very happy as a girl, Miss Bird. Did--did you ever see any young men?"

Miss Bird uttered a grating, unmusical laugh. "I saw the backs of a few in church."

"Was that all?"

"And occasionally talked to a curate at a croquet party."

"How _dreadful_!" cried Dora.

"My aunt,", explained Miss Bird, "hated men! She was jilted as a girl, and detested men ever afterwards. So I never spoke to any men--except curates. No man ever said a tender word to me--no man ever lent me a book or wrote a poem to me, or presented me with a bunch of flowers. That was my girlhood--and now, perhaps, you won't be so surprised at my being a cross old woman!"

Dora, with a sweet impulse, dropped her sewing, and, putting her arms round the elderly lady's neck, kissed her on the cheek.

"I am so sorry you were unhappy," she said, gently.

The grimness faded out of Miss Bird's face. She laid down her embroidery and took Dora's hand.

"My dear," she said, "that is all over and gone. Still, I shall not forget what you said. Some day you may want a friend--a woman--and then you mustn't be afraid to come to me. My bark, child, is worse than my bite.... There! now we mustn't be sentimental any longer, but get on with our work."

Dora therefore relapsed once more into her seat by Miss Bird's side and resumed her sewing, and for some time the silence was unbroken save by the sound of stitching.

"When is the wedding, child?" asked Miss Bird, suddenly.

"On the 26th," said Dora, bending rather more closely over her work.

Miss Bird submitted the girl's profile to a severe scrutiny. "Personally," she said at length, "I don't like the man."

"Who?" said Dora.

"Jefferson."

"But," Dora hastened to retort, "you were in favour of my being engaged to him."

"I know more of him now," said the old maid, "and in my opinion that young doctor's worth ten of him."

Dora started, and her needle went into her finger.

"You pricked yourself then," jeered Miss Bird.

Dora said nothing.

"Because I mentioned _him_!"

"What _do_ you mean, Miss Bird?" demanded Dora, with cheeks afire.

Before Miss Bird could reply, however, the door opened and Mr Cleave appeared.

"I hope--er--I hope I am not interrupting you," said the newcomer, with a slight cough; "that is to say, you may be discussing some matter of dress--ahem!--trust I am not _de trop_?"

"That's exactly what you _are_!" roared Miss Bird.

"Oh--er--ahem!--in that case I will retire----"

"If you please!" replied Miss Bird, sternly.

"Oh, Mr Cleave, of _course_ you may come in!" cried Dora, rising to her feet. "In fact, I was just going out----"

"That's a fib!" said Miss Bird.

But Dora had flown. "Well, come in, come in," said Miss Bird; "come in and read your wretched little paper----"

"Pardon?" inquired Cleave.

"Your _paper_!" howled Miss Bird; "your wretched little rag of a paper that squeals like a pig when anybody has a glass of beer."

"I--er--think--I--er--I think I will _not_ come in just now," bleated Cleave, retiring precipitately.

"Bah!" muttered Miss Bird, "everything's upside down. That man ought to be in skirts, and Mortimer ought to be _shot_ for not eloping with Dora!"

And so the preparations for the wedding continued apace. Of course, economy had to be studied, wherefore Mrs Maybury hired an industrious seamstress to come and sew every day; and sew the seamstress did, till her fingers ached. Miss Bird sat by and threw out hints; H. R. snapped at Miss Bird, and Mrs Maybury snapped at H. R. Finally, the two latter would snap at Dora, who, after firing up at them, would retire to her bedroom, presently descending softly to sit in the drawing-room, the others being in possession of the dining-room.

So passed this damp January time, and the wedding day drew nearer and nearer. Occasionally Mr Jefferson appeared, very dapper and smiling, in evening dress, and carried Dora off to a theatre. But after these excursions, Dora would be very silent, and slip off to her bedroom at the first possible moment.

Mr Maybury and Dora had a quiet evening together at the theatre. They went to see a comedy--a piece in which laughter and tears trod upon one another's heels--a good little piece whose like is not often seen on London boards. They sat hand-in-hand, as in the old days, this father and daughter, and when it was all over, and they came out into the street, their faces were sad. For they were to part soon--so soon.

One day Koko met Jim, by appointment, at Charing Cross, and they both set off for Regent Street to buy Dora a wedding present.

"I know a shop," said Jim; "bought some things there at Christmas."

"Oh yes," said Koko, "you told me. Very nice dark girl there, eh?"

"I forget," said Jim, indifferently; "I daresay there is. Most of the girls in these shops are dark."

"I recollect you mentioned this one to me particularly," said Koko.

"Did I?" replied Jim. "Well, I daresay I did. Anyhow, I haven't the faintest idea what I'm going to get. Been thinking about it for three weeks, too."

"Personally," said Koko, "I am going to buy her a work-box."

"A _what_?"

"A work-box--full of pins and needles and tapes, and all that sort of thing."

"I thought ladies used work-_baskets_," hazarded Jim, vaguely.

"Boxes," said Koko.

"_Baskets_," insisted Jim; "work-_boxes_ are a trifle obsolete, I believe."

"Obsolete or not obsolete," said Koko, "I shall get her a work-_box_."

"All right," returned Jim; "I don't care."

Koko stole a glance at Jim as they walked up Waterloo Place. He had noticed, of late, that Jim was looking unusually gaunt and thin. Koko felt very sorry for his friend, for, in spite of the Long 'Un's lively manner, Koko saw that his old chum was quite a different man now to the jaunty youth who had been the life and soul of Matt's.

"I must get him away for a holiday," thought Koko, in his quiet way; "this business has knocked him over a bit."

They stood for some time outside the shop staring at the array of presents in the window. Koko was staunch to his work-box, but Jim, after gazing into the window for five minutes, was still quite undecided. At length he declared he would leave it to the dark girl.

Koko walked in first, and, espying the dark girl, approached her part of the counter. Very soon a dozen work-boxes lay before him, and he was not long in making up his mind about one. Then, true to his programme, he had it well stocked with everything that Dora could possibly require--even down to a box of matches.

"You never know when you won't want matches," he explained to Jim.

"Well," said Jim, brusquely, "you've got your work-box. Now what about me?"

"Go ahead," said Koko; "there are about twenty thousand things to choose from in this shop."

"A present for a lady?" queried the dark girl.

"Yes," said Jim; "a wedding present."

"I know the very thing," she said, and took down from a shelf near by an ivory fan with forget-me-nots painted by hand upon it.

"Yes, very pretty," agreed Jim; "but--er--I should prefer some other kind of flower."

The dark girl fancied she understood.

"I have another ivory fan that is just as pretty as this one. I will get it."

The fan was brought. Upon the pure ivory was painted a little sprig of rosemary.

"'That's for remembrance,'" quoted Koko, softly.

And so Jim chose the ivory fan as a wedding present for Dora.

*CHAPTER XXIV.*

*JIM CATCHES A TRAIN.*

When old Dr Mortimer received Jim's Christmas card, his face hardened into stone, and his first impulse was to throw the little photograph into the fire. After Jim's final and crowning sin, the Doctor had decided that he would have nothing more to do with his grandson, whose hospital career had been one long escapade, punctuated, at rare intervals, with fits of steady reading.

Jim owed his qualification to his natural genius rather than to these bursts of study. A certain amount of book-work he had been obliged to do, and he did it. Practical work he had revelled in, for action suited his mercurial, restless disposition, and his practical work had saved him. He was by head and shoulders the finest operator Matt's had turned out for many a year, and the examining board knew it.

Throughout his student's career he had been by turns the pride and despair of his grandfather. Dr Mortimer had sent him angry letters when he was in town, and delivered stern reproofs when he came down to Threeways. Jim had promised reformation, only to fall away from the narrow path of rectitude at the first opportunity that presented itself. At last came the paragraph in the local paper anent Jim's doings at the Exhibition, and this had used up the last scrap of his grandfather's patience. Everybody read the paragraph, and everybody laughed at it. Overcome with rage, the Doctor had sat down at his desk and penned the letter which changed the whole course of Jim's existence.

So the old doctor put Jim out of his life--thrust him forth to get his bread--or starve. But he could not put his grandson out of his heart, and, as he sat by his lonely fireside during the following weeks and months, his thoughts had often wandered to the wayward lad, and he had often wondered how Jim was faring--had wondered even, indeed, whether he were alive or dead.

The photograph of his surgery which Jim sent to his grandfather served to allay the old man's misgivings. He had fancied at one time that Jim had gone clean to the bad, and that Sir Savile and other old friends who knew both grandfather and grandson were loth to inform him of the lad's downfall. But it appeared from the photograph--and the particulars on the back of it--that Jim was earning his living. His practice did not appear to embrace an aristocratic quarter, but that did not matter very much. Jim was working, and probably amassing much useful experience.

The old doctor felt relieved. His first impulse--to tear up the little picture--soon departed. He turned Jim's card over several times, and finally, wondering somewhat at his unusual weakness propped it up against one of the massive bronze candlesticks which stood upon his dining-room mantelpiece. It was the only card Dr Mortimer received, and it looked curiously small and forlorn stuck up on that spacious, dignified mantelpiece all by itself.

There, however, the Doctor put it, and there it stayed. The servants examined it and read the message it bore on its little back, and so they too came to learn where "Mr James" was, as did Hughes and the other attendants over at the asylum, not to mention the gardeners, the coachman, and the stable hands. So the kitchen drank a bumper on Christmas night; the butler gave the toast "Mr James--his health!" and with right honest warmth was it drunk. "Bless his handsome face and kind heart!" added the cook, wiping her motherly eyes--and thus Jim, knowing nothing of it, was remembered.

And it is just possible that the proud old man in the dining-room drank a silent toast to the lad he had expelled--without acknowledging to himself that he did so.

Christmas passed away, and January was drawing to a close, when not only the county of Eastfolk but the whole country was distressed by news to the effect that Lord Lingfield, the eminent statesman--one of the few prominent politicians of the day reputed to speak and vote according to the dictates of conscience--had been laid low by a dangerous and distressing internal malady. The illness had been threatening for some months; indeed, it had first manifested itself on the day when Lady Lingfield, having driven over to consult Dr Mortimer, encountered Jim in the act of crossing the high road in his dressing-gown.

Since that day old Dr Mortimer had paid frequent visits to his distinguished patient, who had at first made light of his complaint, and who did not really realise that his life was in jeopardy until a sudden change in the weather gave him a chill and brought matters to a head. A provincial specialist had been summoned to consult with Dr Mortimer, and Jim, glancing through his morning paper on 25th January--the eve of Dora's wedding day--lighted on a paragraph announcing that Sir Savile Smart was also in attendance at the invalid's bedside. The three doctors had issued the following bulletin on the previous evening:--

The Earl of Lingfield is in a critical condition. Should no improvement take place during the next twelve hours, an operation will be rendered imperative.

(Signed) SAVILE SMART, F.R.C.S.
E. A. M'IVER, M.D.
JOHN MORTIMER, M.D.

Jim smiled affectionately at the sight of his grandfather's familiar name thus figuring in the public press. He was turning to another item of news, when there came a thundering rat-tat at No. 9's front door, and next moment Mary entered with a telegram, which she handed to Jim. He tore open the envelope. The message it contained was addressed from "Carhall," Lord Lingfield's country seat near Threeways, and ran:--

Come by first train. Most urgent.--SAVILE SMART.

Jim stared in amaze at the summons. This was, indeed, a strange turn of fortune's wheel. He--Jim Mortimer--was evidently required to assist in an operation in which his grandfather would also be participating! He had helped Sir Savile in this very operation a score of times, and had performed it by himself at Matt's with the great specialist looking on. For Jim had guessed the nature of the operation when Sir Savile was sent for.

"And so he wants me to lend a hand. Good man!"

In a few moments Jim had looked up a train. There was an express leaving for Threeways in half an hour. Just time! Mary flew for a cab, Jim got into his hat and coat, and was away before the Maybury family had fully grasped the reason of his haste or the exalted nature of his destination.

"Half-a-sovereign if you catch the 9.30 at Liverpool Street," said Jim to the cabman.

"Right, sir!" said the cabby, joyously.

But the roads were slippery, and travelling was bad. Horses steamed and plunged, drivers lashed and swore--and Jim's cab made slow progress.

At last the cabby found an opening and dashed forward. But, alas! he had just got up speed, when his horse stumbled and fell, and could not regain its feet, despite its frantic struggles.

Jim leapt out nimbly. "Hard luck, cabby!" he said. "Here's your half-sov."

"You're a gentleman, sir," returned the driver, touching his hat as he went to undo the prostrate nag's harness.

Jim took a fresh cab, and caught his train with a minute to spare. He welcomed this journey, for the rapid motion suited him to a nicety. This was better than brooding in his surgery--this was action, life, excitement. The country was anxiously awaiting news of the great statesman's illness--and Jim was to help in the drama. The operation would not be performed, Jim knew, until he arrived at Lord Lingfield's residence ... and the train whirled on, and Jim, though sore at heart--for was not Dora to be married on the morrow?--derived great comfort from Sir Savile's call.

The train sped on, and Jim's thoughts raced along with it. His brain and the mighty engine kept stride for stride.

"To-morrow! To-morrow!" sang the whirling wheels.

As the meadows, streams, and woods came into view and as quickly passed out again, so the events of the last few months presented themselves panorama-wise to Jim's mind. The tea-shop--the dainty girl with the fairest face in the world--he in raptures, with Koko soberly listening--the vacation--the return--the introduction--the fight at the Exhibition--his grandfather's letter--No. 9--the surgery in Mount Street--and ... that night in the Crescent! Ah, that one kiss! ...

Meadows, streams, woods flashed into view and out again as the express flew eastwards. London was left farther and farther behind, and Dora with it. Jim's heart telegraphed her a farewell. To-morrow she was to be married--_to-morrow_! So good-bye, little Dora--good-bye! ...

"THREEWAYS! THREEWAYS!"

Here he was at last! A tall footman was on the platform. Evidently he had received a description of Jim, for he advanced directly the latter stepped out of the train, and in another half-minute Jim was rolling along a road very dear and familiar to his eyes.

It was four miles to Lord Lingfield's residence--and the earl's fine bays made a mouthful of the journey.

"Sir Savile wishes to see you at once, sir," said the butler, as Jim entered the lofty hall of the great house.

Jim followed the servant into the library. Sir Savile was leaning back in a big easy-chair, and Jim noted with some concern that the specialist's right arm was in a sling. By his side stood Jim's grandfather. The third doctor was in the sick-room.

Sir Savile, without rising, put out his left hand.

"My dear Mortimer, this is splendid of you! You have not lost a moment!"

They shook hands. Jim turned to his grandfather. "How do you do, sir?" he said, flushing a little.

Dr Mortimer bent his head slightly, but did not speak.

"I suppose you were surprised to receive my message?" said Sir Savile. "The fact is, I've had an accident. I was coming downstairs this morning, when I fell and dislocated my shoulder. That being the case, I wired to you----"

"I shall be pleased to assist in any way I can," said Jim.

The specialist smiled. "You haven't got to assist, Mortimer--you've got to operate yourself."

"I, sir!" cried Jim.

"Yes, _you_! You're the best man in England after me, as I have reason to know. So, when I found myself out of the running, I sent for you. I shall direct you, and you will receive assistance from my colleagues, but the success or failure of the operation will rest entirely in your hands. If you succeed, you're a made man; if you fail----"

"I shall not fail," said Jim quietly.

"I know you won't, my boy," said Sir Savile; "for, if I had had any doubt of you, I shouldn't have sent for you ... and now we will go upstairs."

*CHAPTER XXV.*

*IN THE SILENT HOUSE.*

At six o'clock that night Jim Mortimer caught a train back to London. He had operated with complete success, and every evening paper in the country had published the reassuring bulletin which Sir Savile drew up after the satisfactory completion of Jim's task.

Had the operation failed, no mention would have been made of Jim's participation in the affair. But the young surgeon had come through the trying ordeal with an unshaken nerve and triumphant skill, and Sir Savile was more than satisfied.

It was the concluding sentence of the bulletin, therefore, which caused universal surprise and set the whole medical world by the ears--as well as a multitude of laymen--until the fact of the specialist's accident became public knowledge.

The operation was performed by Mr James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., late of St Matthew's Hospital.

Thus did Sir Savile, with a few strokes of his pen, make Jim famous. He need not have said anything of the kind, for the operation was carried out under his close personal supervision, but he was a big man, with a big mind, and he did not hesitate for a moment about crediting Jim with the entire success of the perilous undertaking. A tremor in Jim's hand, a slip of his knife, and Lord Lingfield's name would have been added to the roll of illustrious dead. But Jim's hand did not tremble, nor did his knife slip, and so the happy bulletin went forth, and the world was glad because a good man had been saved to it.

The proud lady who had spoken to Jim from her carriage on that fine September day was a different woman altogether when she thanked him for what he had done. The aristocratic bearing and the air of fine breeding were there, but her words were those of a wife sore stricken by watching and waiting.

And following the mother came the girl Jim had also seen in the carriage on that September day--"the pretty girl." Jim blushed to the roots of his fair hair when the pretty girl added her gentle thanks to her mother's.

"Your fee, my boy," said Sir Savile, encountering Jim a little later in the library. The slip of paper he pushed into Mortimer's hand was a cheque for a hundred pounds.

"But, sir----" began Jim, who did not want a penny, so highly had he been paid in other ways.

"Not a word. It's my case, and I'm not down here for love, I can tell you. Take your cheque, boy, and buy your girl a necklace out of it. By the way, how are you getting on with Maybury's nice daughter?"

"She is to be married to-morrow," said Jim, turning to look at a picture.

The great surgeon, however, did not miss the change in his voice. Jim went on looking at the picture, and kept his back to Sir Savile, who put his left hand--his right not being available--on his old pupil's shoulder.

"Have I touched a tender spot, lad? Well, cheer up! It's a wide world, with a heap of other pretty girls in it!"

And then he discreetly left Jim alone, and Jim studied the picture for some time longer, though he could not have told you afterwards whether it was a landscape or a portrait of a deceased noble earl of Lingfield.

There was no fast train back to town till six, so Jim had perforce to remain on at Carhall. He did not see anything more of his grandfather, who left the house after affixing his signature to the bulletin. He made no inquiry for Jim, and Sir Savile looked perplexed when he saw that his old friend did not intend to budge an inch from the relentless attitude he had adopted towards his grandson.

"And yet," mused the specialist, "he must feel as proud as Punch of the lad!"

Jim had a smoking-carriage all to himself on his return journey. He was glad of that, for he wanted to think of Dora, and solitude suited his mood. After this night he would have to put her out of his thoughts altogether, but to-night she was still Dora Maybury--still the queen of his heart. To-morrow Jim must in honour cease to be her subject; but to-morrow had not come yet. Soon enough the new day, dawning, would bring desolation to his love.

Strange that the turning-point in Jim's career should have come on Dora's wedding eve! Seemingly it was one of those compensatory acts wherewith Dame Fortune makes amends for the hard blows she deals. Jim knew that this day's success was good enough to make a specialist of him right away. And what joy would have filled his heart, this journey, had he been speeding back to Dora's side--he could imagine, had she been his, the pride that would have lit up her face when she heard of his achievement!

As the train cleft the darkness, eating up a mile of iron road with each minute that passed, Jim, just for the sake of the melancholy pleasure he extracted from it, let his fancy wander in the world of make-believe. Dora was _his_, and was awaiting him. He had only dreamed that she was another's. London to him now was no grimy, smoke-begirt city, but a palace of delight set in a garden fragrant with "the blended odours of a thousand flowers."

But, alas for such vain imaginings! A rough voice roused Jim from his half-dose, and a rain-spotted hand awaited his ticket.... It was London, and London in its dampest and most dismal garb.

Jim had wired from Threeways asking Koko to meet him at his surgery at eight. He thought they might spend the evening together amid cheery surroundings.

Koko had not arrived at the surgery when he got there. The fire was out--Mrs Brown, taking advantage of her master's absence, was probably carousing with other ladies of her own station. Mount Street appeared exceptionally sordid and forlorn. Everything seemed to have conspired to add to Jim's weight of sadness.

He lit the gas, and as it flared up he was slightly startled to observe the figure of a man huddled up on the sofa. On the floor, by the head of the sofa, stood an empty glass jar.

Jim walked across the room and inspected the sleeper. It was the old provision dealer.

"Wake up, Mr Harris!" he cried; "wake up! What are you doing here?"

The provision dealer slowly opened his eyes.

"Ain't I--ain't I dead, then?" he demanded.

"_Dead_? No! You're as alive as I am!"

"I thought I'd svallowed enough of the stuff to do the job."

"What stuff?"

"Vy, the prussic acid. That's deadly p'ison, ain't it?"

"Rather!"

"Well, I svallowed all there vos in the bottle ... and I ain't dead, it seems."

Jim surveyed the empty jar, and found it to be the mislabelled vessel in which he kept his whisky safe from Mrs Brown's thirsty raids.

"You're a foolish old man!" said Jim. "Never you try on any trick of that sort again--d'you hear?"

"Vy didn't it kill me?" inquired the dealer in an aggrieved voice.

"Because what you drank wasn't poison--luckily for you."

"Vould it have been enough if it had been p'ison?"

"Yes, enough to kill an elephant."

Old Harris shuddered.

"Vould it have hurt?" he asked.

"It would have burnt your inside up and curled you into a knot. Yes, it would have hurt a bit."

Mr Harris shook his head.

"It vos Isaac drove me to it. I felt I couldn't stand that velp no longer--'e drove me to it."

Mr Harris looked very bleared. He had swallowed half a pint of neat spirit, and the room seemed to be going round him.

"Well," said Jim, "you may thank your stars that wasn't prussic acid. When you feel better, get along home and turn into bed."

"I vill, doctor, I vill," whined the old Jew; "and I'll pull up--so 'elp me, I vill."

"That's right," said Jim; "now take another nap--it'll do you good."

As Jim turned towards the counter, his eye lighted on a folded piece of paper. Picking it up, he found it to be a note that had been left for him.

It ran:--

mrs murphy's respects and Will the doctor come round to number 8 pine Court to See her baby.

top floor.

Jim often received such rough missives. This, in fact, was rather a literary performance than otherwise for Pine Court.

He tossed the note back on to the counter, buttoned up his overcoat, and sallied forth promptly. He left the light burning, and scribbled "Back soon" on a sheet of paper for Koko's information.

His destination was only seven minutes' walk distant. Not a soul was to be seen as Jim made his way down the narrow alley by which one reached the court from the street. If it were possible, this place appeared even more forlorn than the outer world.

It seemed to Jim, as he passed into No. 8, that the building was curiously silent. As he ascended to the first floor not a sound fell on his ears. The house smelt damp, and had an unoccupied air about it. Could it be that this was the tenement which had been recently condemned as unfit for habitation, owing to its rottenness? If so, why was Mrs Murphy installed on the top floor?

Jim knew, however, that it was hard to make some of these wretched beings go, even out of a house such as this. Mrs Murphy would probably be evicted in due course. Meanwhile, her baby was ill, and Jim had got to doctor the little thing.

So dark was it that he had to light matches in order to see his way up the creaking staircase. And as he ascended to the second floor he was entirely unconscious of the fact that he was being followed. For behind him, with cunning stealth, crept a man with a bandaged head.

As Jim went higher the silence struck him yet more forcibly, and he began to wonder whether he could have made a mistake about the number. Still, there was no harm in seeing whether Mrs Murphy _was_ located on the top floor. So he continued his ascent, the figure behind pursuing him with noiseless steps.

At last! Here was the top floor, and here was a crazy-looking door. And still there was absolutely no sign or sound of a living presence in the place.

He knocked at the door.

"Does Mrs Murphy live here?" he called.

"Yes; come in," replied a woman's voice.

So he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Instantly he stopped; the room was innocent of any furniture, but confronting him stood half a dozen roughs, and dimly, in the background, he could distinguish a woman's form.

_It was a trap_--and safety lay only in immediate flight. He turned towards the stairs, but, as he did so, the man with the bandaged head tripped him up, so that Jim fell backwards into the room. One wild glance he cast upon his assailant, and then the bandaged man, with a savage snarl, swung his belt. The buckle hit Jim full on the forehead; there came a great roaring in his ears, and while he was feebly grasping the air the buckle descended again and finished its work.

*CHAPTER XXVI.*

*THE VULTURES.*

For a moment the Hooligan stood motionless, as if surprised by the ease with which he had accomplished his revenge. For a moment only, however. Approaching the prostrate form of the young doctor, he gave Jim a savage kick in the side. Jim did not move or speak.

"We've got 'im this time, boys," exclaimed the rough. "He's done."

But here there was an unlooked-for interruption. The woman whose voice had lured Jim to his destruction ran forward and confronted the leader of the gang.

She was a flower-seller, and had the healthy complexion common to her open-air calling. A thick mane of black hair hung over her eyes, and she was ill-kempt and shabby, but she was not wholly without grace of form or feature.

"You said it was an old gent coming up for rent. You lied. It's the tall doctor."

The Hooligan glared at her.

"Well,--wot then?"

"If I'd known it was 'im, I'd 'ave warned 'im, that's wot! 'E saved my baby's life. You shan't touch 'im again."

The Hooligan waved her off without ceremony.

"Shut your silly mouth, will you! It's done now. Get back over there, or I'll treat you as I've treated 'im."

Appalled by his tone, the woman shrank back to the gloomy corner whence she had emerged.

The others laughed coarsely. The room was dimly illumined by the light that came from the lamp-post in the court without, but this was sufficient to show them that their victim was unconscious, if not dead.

"See wot's on him," said one, a hunchback.

They crowded round the still figure, and commenced a quick search of Jim's pockets. The bandaged man--not without some wrangling--was allowed to retain Mortimer's watch and chain; the hunchback greedily possessed himself of the coins he extracted from Jim's pockets--two half-sovereigns, some silver, and a few coppers; another of the gang annexed Jim's cuff-links and studs.

The other four savagely demanded that the money, at least, should be divided up amongst them, and were assured that they would get their share. They received this promise with remarks that indicated that there was little honour among these thieves, and it looked as if a struggle for the booty were about to ensue, when the hunchback made a discovery which rendered the other finds insignificant in comparison.

"'Ere's a cheque."

So saying, he struck a match with feverish haste.

"'_Undred pounds_! My Sam! This is a bit o' luck. 'E didn't get this out o' Mount Street, I'll wager."

"Let's 'ave a squint at it," said the bandaged man. "Ay," he continued, after examining the pink and white slip, "this is a bit of orl right. 'Undred quid! That'll be nearly fifteen quid apiece."

"A bit o' paper like that ain't no good to us," growled one of the gang; "'ow can we change it? 'Ooever tries to will be nabbed."

The hunchback interposed. "Don't you make no mistake, Jerry. We can change it. Gentleman 'Arry 'll do it. 'E can get up just like a toff--he wasn't a valit six years for nuthink. It ain't crossed, and so 'e can get cash over the counter. 'E's told me that when 'e was in service 'e often changed cheques for the nobs wot employed 'im."

Thereupon the bandaged man arranged with the hunchback that "Gentleman 'Arry" was to be approached on the subject that night, and promised five pounds if he changed the cheque first thing in the morning.

"There ain't nuthink else on 'im, is there?" inquired the bandaged man, when this matter had been settled.

The hunchback went all through Jim's pockets again, but his search only yielded some keys, a pocket-handkerchief, and a few letters.

"No, nuthink else, mates."

"Then we'll clear."

As they all rose to their feet, the flower-seller again confronted the leader.

"'Ow about me?" she demanded. "Didn't I get 'im in 'ere? 'E'd 'ave cottoned something was wrong if 'e 'adn't been answered by a woman."

The Hooligans grinned at each other. The bandaged man had arranged this matter with the girl; it was no business of the others.

"Oh, you shall 'ave a new 'at, Sally," the bandaged man assured her, with a leer.

"Wot else?"

"Anyfink yer like, Sally. But I thought you did it out o' friendship for me, because I was so kind to your 'usband before they nabbed 'im," added the Hooligan, with an unpleasant grimace.

"I'll see I get my share," said the girl, showing her white teeth.

"Wot! Would you take the kind doctor's 'ard-earned welf? 'Im wot was so good to yore byby! For shame, Sally!"

'"E's done for now, and it doesn't matter to 'im. I'll 'ave my share, or know the reason why."

"You'll split on us?"

"Yes, on the 'ole lot of yer! I don't join in a dirty job like this for love. I've a baby to keep at 'ome, and I want money, so you watch it!"

The bandaged man winked at his fellows. "That'll be orl right," he said. "It's on'y 'er wye. Well, let's get out o' this, boys."

As the others moved towards the door the bandaged man and the girl stayed by Jim's side. As the former gazed upon the prostrate and silent figure, an evil smile distorted his countenance. "We're quits now," he muttered, shaking his fist at the white face, "you an' me. You 'urt me, and now I've 'urt you."

A twinge in the wound which he had come by through Jim's agency made him wince. He uttered an appalling oath.

"No, we ain't quite quits! I'll spoil your beauty for you, to end with, my pretty doctor."

He raised his iron-shod heel above Jim's face, but ere the foot could descend the flower-girl pushed the Hooligan aside with such force that he reeled against the wall.

"Leave 'im alone--ain't you satisfied?" she exclaimed sharply.

The man recovered himself with another oath, and smacked the girl across the face with his open hand.

"That's for you, you interferin' cat!"

With a snarl worthy of the creature she had been likened to, the girl hurled herself at her aggressor, and clawed his face with venomous finger-nails. In the struggle the Hooligan's bandage came off, revealing an unhealed wound. Crying out with pain, the rough threw the girl off with all his might, and, turning quickly, was hacking at Jim's head and body, when the girl, regaining her balance, flung herself across the motionless figure on the floor, and there remained while the Hooligan kicked and struck both at herself and Jim with ungovernable fury. Time and again he tried to drag her away, but she held staunch to her post in spite of his blows and execrations.

By this time the Hooligan had worked himself into a state of frenzy. Seeing that he could not get the girl away, he drew a knife from his belt, but, even as he poised it to strike, the door was kicked open and a man appeared.

Then a voice rang out commandingly; George Somers--for Koko it was--had never spoken so in his life before.

"Drop that knife or I fire."

With the howl of a maddened animal the Hooligan sprang to his feet and bounded forward. The blade flashed ominously in the lamplight. As it swept downwards towards Koko's heart, there was a sharp report, followed by a shriek from the Hooligan, who swayed, clutching at the air, and then toppled forward in a heap, shot through the brain.

Simultaneously came sounds of heavy footsteps on the stairs. The other members of the gang made a dash for the doorway, but as they reached it several stalwart forms barred their exit. The Hooligans, realising their position, fought like tigers to escape, but the police, having been forewarned of trouble by old Harris, had their truncheons ready, and used them without stint. Two of the Hooligans dropped to the floor; another, a big fellow, closed with one of the constables, and they went swinging and stumbling into the passage without. Taking his opportunity, the hunchback crept out on to the dark staircase, and was softly descending when suddenly two bony hands seized him by the neck, and next moment he and old Harris were rolling over and over down the rotten stairs, the Jew dealer hanging on to the half-strangled dwarf with a nervous grip which the other could not overcome, beat and tear as he would. Halfway down the stairs the writhing pair were met by another couple of policemen, by whom the hunchback was quickly secured and handcuffed.

The reinforcing police speedily settled the matter, and all the Hooligans were soon in custody.

When at length the police were able to draw breath more easily and look around, they found Somers kneeling by his friend. By Jim's side lay the insensible form of the flower-seller who had befriended him with such strange suddenness.

"Jim, old chap! Jim!" cried Koko. "Jim, speak to me."

No sound came from Jim's lips. He lay as he had fallen, with his white face upturned to the ceiling. But that face was without a mark, so well shielded had it been by the woman.

"Here, sir, try this," said one of the police, holding out a pocket-flask.

Quickly Koko unscrewed the top and forced the mouth of the flask between his friend's lips. The raw spirit trickled down Jim's throat, and, to Koko's unspeakable relief, Mortimer opened his eyes.

"Is that--you--old man?"

"Yes, Jim! Here, swallow some more. Oh, Jim," he added, in a trembling voice, "I'm so glad! I thought--you were dead!"

Jim gave a little sigh. "I think they've done for me. I can't move--they've hurt my back...."

Koko shivered, for he knew what Jim meant.

"We'll take you to the hospital, old man," he said, "and you'll soon be all right."

Jim's lips moved in reply, and Koko put down his ear.

"Take me home," said Jim--and fainted away.

*CHAPTER XXVII.*

*THE HOME-COMING.*

On the day preceding that fixed for her wedding, Dora Maybury purposely went down to breakfast later than usual, as she wished to be alone during the meal. She did not want to meet the prying eyes of her elder sister, or answer her still more prying questions.

Miss H. R. Maybury, however, was not easily put off. This was the last day that the two sisters would be spending under the same roof for some time to come, and H. R. intended to make the most of it.

When, therefore, Dora reached the breakfast-room, she found her sister seated behind the coffee-urn.

"It is rather provoking of you to be so late, Dora," said H. R. "We have had to keep breakfast on the table for an hour, just on your account."

"You needn't have done that," replied Dora, coldly; "I only want a cup of tea and some bread and butter."

"You won't look much like a bride to-morrow if you starve yourself to-day," observed H. R.

Dora made no rejoinder, but took her seat at the table.

"There isn't any tea--won't coffee do?" inquired H. R.

"_Any_thing will do," said Dora, shortly.

"Dear me!" cried H. R. "I hope you will be in a nicer mood when you sit down to breakfast for the first time with Harold."

"I expect he'll say pleasanter things to me than you do," returned Dora.

H. R. was taken somewhat aback. "Here is some coffee," she said, more amicably; "there is a plate of bacon and eggs for you in the fender," she added.

"I couldn't _touch_ it!" cried Dora.

"I don't see why you should lose your appetite because you're going to be married to-morrow," said H. R.

"Don't you? Well, perhaps you'll understand my feelings better when you find _yourself_ on the eve of _your_ wedding day!" snapped Dora.

H. R., having no reply ready, pretended to read the morning paper.

At length something occurred to her

"Oh, by the way, dear," she said, when Dora had sipped her coffee and nibbled a few mouthfuls of bread and butter, "some more presents have come for you."

"Oh!" said Dora, indifferently

"They are on the hall table--shall I get them for you?"

"If you like. I am in no hurry."

But H. R. had recognised Jim's writing on one parcel, and wanted to watch her sister's face when Dora opened the packet. Jim, it should be added had placed the presents from Koko and himself on the hall table very late on the previous night.

H. R. left the breakfast-room, and presently returned bearing three parcels in her arms.

"I think there must be one from Frank, too; he was wrapping up something very mysteriously before he went to school this morning."

Dora turned over the three parcels which H. R. set down on the table before her. After scrutinising the writing on each, she opened that addressed to her in Frank's irregular round-hand. Frank's present proved to be a volume of Tennyson's works in a handsome morocco leather cover.

"Dear Frank! what a nice present!" cried Dora. "He must have saved up his pocket-money for months!"

"He gets a good many tips," said H. R., drily.

"Pretty girls' brothers generally do," observed a harsh voice at the door.

Following the remark came Miss Bird herself. The maiden lady duly admired the Tennyson.

"The other two presents," said H. R., "are from Mr Somers and Dr Mortimer, and Dora _won't_ open them because she knows I'm burning to see them."

"And make nasty remarks about them when you've seen them?" suggested Miss Bird.

Before H. R. could think of a suitable retort, Dora had drawn Koko's present from its enclosing wrappers.

"A _work-box_--full of things!" she said, laughing; "everything I can possibly want, even down to matches!"

The three ladies all agreed that it was a very nice work-box.

"And now for the third parcel," said H. R., meaningly.

"It is a fan," said Dora, quietly opening Jim's parcel--"an ivory one."

She passed it on to Miss Bird.

"A beautiful present, my dear," said that lady. "I admire Dr Mortimer's taste."

"And look!" cried H. R., who next inspected the fan; "it has a sprig of rosemary upon it. How very sentimental! That means remembrance, doesn't it? Dora, I do believe Dr Mortimer likes you more than he cares to admit."

"Please don't talk such nonsense, H. R.," said Dora, holding out her hand for the fan.

"Come, now," said H. R., spreading out the fan and peeping over it, "tell me! Don't you think I'm right?"

"Right about what?" asked Dora, with trembling lips. "Oh, please give me my fan!"

"Give the child her fan and don't tease her," rasped out Miss Bird, who saw through the deliberate malice of H. R.'s question.

"Why doesn't she answer, then?" said H. R., examining the sprig of rosemary with renewed interest; "anybody would think that she liked _him_ by the way she goes on."

The blood rushed into Dora's face.

"See how she is blushing!" added H. R., unsparingly.

"I'm not blushing," cried Dora, whose cheeks sadly belied her words.

"You are--I believe you _do_ like him!"

Dora rose from her chair. The blood had died out of her face, and she was very white.

"And why," she demanded, her eyes flashing ominously, "_shouldn't_ I like him? Is there any sin in it? When he came you all condemned him, but he has been quite patient and nice and gentlemanly all the time, in spite of the things that have been said to him. Yes, I _do_ like him, and I shall always value this present from him. Please give it to me."

H. R. handed her the fan. "In _that_ case, Dora, dear," she said, cuttingly, "it seems a pity that you are marrying Mr Jefferson to-morrow."

Dora closed the fan and held it tightly to her bosom. Her sister's final remark had brought the blood surging into her face again. "Oh," she cried, "how I _hate_ you, H. R.--yes, _hate_ you!"

And with that she gave a piteous little cry and ran out of the room.

For a few moments there was silence, and then Miss Bird turned her stern, lined face towards the elder sister. "Miss Maybury," she said, "I am ashamed of you."

"Your opinion of me," said H. R., with a forced lightness of tone, "does not concern me at all."

"To think," Miss Bird went on, "that you should taunt that poor child with a fact that has been patent to every woman in this house for _weeks_ past! You have seen it--you know it. I repeat, I am heartily ashamed of you."

"Please spare me your lectures, Miss Bird."

"I will spare you nothing. I tell you to your face that you are a cruel, jealous woman. Dora is much younger than you, but is being married before you, and that is rankling in your mind. And so you bully her and tax her with liking Dr Mortimer when you _know_ she likes him--ay, likes him far better than she likes the man she is marrying."

"But," interrupted H. R.; "Mr Jefferson happens to be very well off, and so our dear little innocent Dora does not see her way to give him up."

Miss Bird rose from her seat and walked up to where H. R. was sitting.

"Do you really _know_ why Dora is marrying this young stockbroker?" she said.

"Because she is tired of working in the post-office, and wants to have a good time, I suppose," replied H. R.

"Oh! you suppose that! Well, I will tell you why. She is marrying him because she wishes to make your father's position secure in the Jeffersons' office, and, if possible, to improve it. She is deliberately marrying young Mr Jefferson with that object in view."

"Then she is very silly," said H. R., scornfully.

"_Silly_! Yes, she _is_ silly! But how old is she?--_nineteen_! And at nineteen aren't many girls _very_ silly--aren't their heads full of romantic ideas of self-sacrifice, and other nonsense! Yes, she _is_ silly! If she were your age--twenty-eight--she would be marrying Mr Jefferson for her own sake, but she is only nineteen, and so she is marrying him for her father's sake. Now you understand!"

"I simply don't believe you," said H. R.

"It matters little whether you believe me or not. I have told you the truth. I am a very much older woman than you, and it has been my recreation all my life--for want of a better--to watch the people round me and dissect their motives. Old maids are good judges of character. You yourself will find you are a better judge of character in a few years' time than you are now."

Then, with this final lash from her tongue, Miss Bird stalked out of the room, while Miss H. R. Maybury, feeling considerably crestfallen, made her way downstairs to commence her household duties.

Somehow or other Dora got through this miserable day. At lunch and tea and dinner she hardly spoke a word, but she brightened up when her father got home from the office, where he had been working later than usual in order to be free the next day. He had brought an evening paper with him, and read out the latest bulletin concerning the Earl of Lingfield's health.

"So," added the ex-merchant, "our friend Dr Mortimer was not sent for merely to assist. According to this bulletin he actually performed the operation--a very perilous one, I am told."

"It will make him," said Miss Bird, laying down her knitting needles.

"Yes," agreed Mr Maybury, "a man possessed of his nerve and skill will be in great demand. I am sorry in one way, because it will mean that he will leave us."

"I hope this success won't turn his head and drive him back to his vicious courses," said Mrs Maybury, somewhat severely.

Mr Cleave was scanning the new number of his favourite weekly.

"I should not be surprised," he conjectured, in his quavering tenor, "if alcohol proved Mortimer's stumbling-block in life. There is a sad case in the _Abstainer's_ list this week of a young naval doctor who has lately lost his post on account of his habitual drunkenness."

Miss Bird cast a lowering eye on her fellow-boarder, but before she could make any remark the door was opened with unexpected suddenness, and Mary came in.

"Oh, if you please, mum," she said, addressing Mrs Maybury, "there's some policemen at the door, and Mr Somers, and they've brought Dr Mortimer----"

But here the little maid broke down and burst into tears. Fortunately Koko appeared at this juncture to complete the announcement.

"Jim has been hurt by Hooligans," he said, quietly. "At first I wanted to take him to a hospital, but he told me he would like to be brought here."

"Is he badly hurt?" asked Mr Maybury.

"Yes," said Koko, "very seriously hurt. The police fetched a doctor----"

He paused, for he noticed that Dora had risen to her feet, and, white as death, was awaiting the doctor's verdict.

"The doctor pronounced him to be suffering from concussion of the brain and a fracture of the spine."

Mr Maybury walked out of the room, closing the door after him. The police ambulance containing Jim's unconscious form had been set down in the hall. By the ambulance stood Dr Taplow's representative--the bearded man.

"Please follow me," said Mr Maybury, and those in the drawing-room could hear ominously heavy footsteps on the stairs as the policemen bore their burden up to Jim's little room on the second landing. Koko slipped out of the drawing-room after giving Mrs Maybury and the others further details concerning the affair. Dora made as if to follow him.

"You had better stay in here, dear," said Mrs Maybury; "anybody else will only be in the way, at present."

"I am only going into the dining-room," said Dora.

How long she waited in the dining-room, Dora never knew. It seemed like a lifetime. She heard the police go out and shut the front door after them, and later she heard the front door opened and closed again, and yet again. At length, after what seemed an interminable period, Mr Maybury came into the dining-room. His face was very grave.

"Father--tell me the truth!"

Dora was looking at him with beseeching eyes that would brook no subterfuge.

"The doctor says," replied Mr Maybury, "that he will not live more than twenty-four hours."

Dora hid her face on his shoulder.

"Oh, father, father," she sobbed, "if he dies my heart will break!"