Drunken Bet lay on it, a
bundle of clothing over which the
doctor bent for but a few minutes
before he turned away.
Antony Dart, standing near the
door, heard Miss Montaubyn speak
to him in a whisper.
"May I go to 'er?" and the doctor
nodded.
She limped lightly forward and
her small face was white, but expectant
still. What could she expect
now--O Lord, what?
An extraordinary thing happened.
An abnormal silence fell. The owners
of such faces as on stretched
necks caught sight of her seemed in
a flash to communicate with others
in the crowd.
"Jinny Montaubyn!" someone
whispered. And "Jinny Montaubyn"
was passed along, leaving an
awed stirring in its wake. Those
whom the pressure outside had
crushed against the wall near the
window in a passionate hurry, breathed
on and rubbed the panes that they
might lay their faces to them. One
tore out the rags stuffed in a broken
place and listened breathlessly.
Jinny Montaubyn was kneeling
down and laying her small old hand
on the muddied forehead. She held
it there a second or so and spoke in
a voice whose low clearness brought
back at once to Dart the voice in
which she had spoken to the Something
upstairs.
"Bet," she said, "Bet." And then
more soft still and yet more clear,
"Bet, my dear."
It seemed incredible, but it was a
fact. Slowly the lids of the woman's
eyes lifted and the pupils fixed
themselves on Jinny Montaubyn, who
leaned still closer and spoke again.
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