driven too fast.”
The doctor cast a practised glance over her. He stepped over to the shelf and poured something into a glass. He brought it over to her.
“Drink this down,” he said, “and you’ll feel better. You’ve had a shock.”
Bundle drank obediently and a tinge of colour came into her pallid face. The doctor nodded approvingly.
“That’s right. Now I want you to sit quietly here. I’ll go out and attend to things. After I’ve made sure there’s nothing to be done for the poor fellow, I’ll come back and we’ll talk about it.”
He was away some time. Bundle watched the clock on the mantelpiece. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes—would he never come?
Then the door opened and Dr. Cassell reappeared. He looked different—Bundle noticed that at once—grimmer and at the same time more alert. There was something else in his manner that she did not quite understand, a suggestion of repressed excitement.
“Now then, young lady,” he said. “Let’s have this out. You ran over this man, you say. Tell me just how the accident happened?”
Bundle explained to the best of her ability. The doctor followed her narrative with keen attention.
“Just so; the car didn’t pass over his body?”
“No. In fact, I thought I’d missed him altogether.”
“He was reeling, you say?”
“Yes, I thought he was drunk.”