“She’ll do now,” he announced.

Tavernake nodded.  He was amazed at his own sense of relief.

“I am glad,” he declared.

The doctor joined them, his black bag in his hand, prepared for departure.  He addressed himself to Tavernake as the responsible person.

“The young lady will be all right now,” he said, “but she may be rather queer for a day or two.  Fortunately, she made the usual mistake of people who are ignorant of medicine and its effects —­ she took enough poison to kill a whole household.  You had better take care of her, young man,” he added dryly.  “She’ll be getting into trouble if she tries this sort of thing again.”

“Will she need any special attention during the next few days?” Tavernake asked.  “The circumstances under which I brought her here are a little unusual, and I am not quite sure—­”

“Take her home to bed,” the doctor interrupted, “and you’ll find she’ll sleep it off.  She seems to have a splendid constitution, although she has let herself run down.  If you need any further advice and your own medical man is not available, I will come and see her if you send for me.  Camden, my name is; telephone number 734 Gerrard.”

“I should be glad to know the amount of your fee, if you please,” Tavernake said.

“My fee is two guineas,” the doctor answered.

Tavernake paid him and he went away.  Already the shadow of the tragedy was passing.  The chemist had joined his assistant and was busy dispensing drugs behind his counter.

“You can go in to the young lady, if you like,” he remarked to Tavernake.  “I dare say she’ll feel better to have some one with her.”

Tavernake passed slowly into the inner room, closing the door behind him.  He was scarcely prepared for so piteous a sight.  The girl’s face was white and drawn as she lay upon the couch to which they had lifted her.  The fighting spirit was dead; she was in a state of absolute and complete collapse.  She opened her eyes at his coning, but closed them again almost immediately —­ less, it seemed, from any consciousness of his presence than from sheer exhaustion.

“I am glad that you are better,” he whispered crossing the room to her side.

“Thank you,” she murmured almost inaudibly.

Tavernake stood looking down upon her, and his sense of perplexity increased.  Stretched on the hard horsehair couch she seemed, indeed, pitifully thin and younger than her years.  The scowl, which had passed from her face, had served in some measure as a disguise.

“We shall have to leave here in a few minutes,” he said, softly.  “They will want to close the shop.”

“I am so sorry,” she faltered, “to have given you all this trouble.  You must send me to a hospital or the workhouse —­ anywhere.”

“You are sure that there are no friends to whom I can send?” he asked.

“There is no one!”