"I do not know that I have done anything more than a man in my profession ought to be ready to do at all times," I answered. "You know, or perhaps you do not know, that a doctor who really loves his profession puts it before everything else. Wherever it calls him, he is bound to go. You have asked me to visit a sick man with you—how is it possible for me to refuse?"
"You are the first doctor who has ever come to our house," she answered.
"'Go back,' I shouted."
A great blaze of gaslight from a large central lamp fell on her face as she spoke. I could not help remarking its pallor. Her eyes were full of trouble. Her lips were tremulous.
"You are the first doctor who has ever come to our house," she repeated. "I almost wish I had not asked you to come."
"Why so? Do you think your father will resent my visit—that he will regard it as an intrusion?"
"Oh, it isn't that," she answered. Then she seemed to pull herself together as with a great effort.
"You are coming, and there's an end of it," she said; "well, I shall always be grateful to you for your kindness."
"I hope I may be able to assist your father."
When I said this her face grew brighter.
"I am sure you will," she said, eagerly. "You look clever. The moment I saw your face, I knew you were clever. The moment I looked at your hands, I saw capabilities in them. You have got the hands of a good surgeon."
"What can you know about it?" I answered, with a laugh.
"Oh," she said, with an answering laugh, "there are few things I do not know something about. You would be an encyclopædia of all kinds of strange knowledge if you led my life."
"Well," I said, "I, of course, know nothing about you, but will you answer one pardonable question? Where are we going? I do not quite recognise this part of town, and yet I have lived in London the greater part of my days. Are we going east, west, north, or south? I have lost my bearings. What is your address?"
"We are going west," she replied, in a perfectly cold, calm voice. Then, before I could interrupt her, she pushed her long feather fan through the window.
"Take the short cut, Andrews," she called to the driver. "Don't go the round. We are in a great hurry; take the short cut."
"Yes, miss," he shouted back to her.
We were driving down a fairly broad thoroughfare at the time, but now we turned abruptly and entered the veriest slums I had ever seen. Shouting children, drunken men and women filled the streets. A bad smell rose on the night air.
Was it possible that this beautiful, refined-looking girl lived in so repulsive a neighbourhood? But no, it was only as she expressed it, a short cut. The horse was a fleet one, and we soon found ourselves in a lonely and deserted square. We pulled up at a house which had not a light showing anywhere. I got out first and helped Miss Whitby to descend from the hansom.
"Will you kindly inquire if your father has returned?" I asked her; "for if not, there does not seem much use in my coming in."
"Oh! come in, in any case for a moment," she answered, in a cheerful tone. "I can see that the servants have all gone to bed, so
