er fault."

"Was it?"

"I can only go by what she says." The girl comes into the conversation
through the gate. She may perhaps have stopped for a word or two with
cook and a house-and-parlourmaid, who are deeply interested, in the
rear.

"It _was_ my fault," she said. "If it hadn't been for me, it would
never have happened. Do see how he is now, Dr. Vereker."

It is open to surmise that the first strong impulse of generosity
having died down under the corrective of a mother, our young lady is
gradually seeing her way to interposing Dr. Vereker as a buffer
between herself and the subject of the conversation, for she does not
go to the cab-door to look in at him. The doctor does. The mother
holds as aloof as possible, not to get entangled into any obligations.

"Get him away to the infirmary, or the station at once," she says.
"That's the best thing to be done. They'll take care of him till his
friends come to claim him. Of course, they'll come. They always do."
The doctor seems to share this confidence, or affects to do so.

"Sure to. His friends or his servants," says he. "But he can't give
any account of himself yet. Of course, I don't know what he'll be able
to do to-morrow morning."

He resumes his place in the cab beside its occupant, who, except
for an entire want of animation, looks much like what he did in the
railway-carriage--the same strong-looking man with well-marked
cheek-bones, very thick brown hair and bushy brows, a skin rather
tanned, and a scar on the bridge of the nose; very strong hands with
a tattoo-mark showing on the wrist and an abnormal crop of hair on the
back, running on to the fingers, but flawed by a scar or two. Add to
this the chief thing you would recollect him by, an Elizabethan beard,
and you will have all the particulars about him that a navy-blue serge
suit, with shirt to match, allows to be seen of him. But you will have
an impression that could you see his skin beyond the sun-mark limit on
his hands and neck, you would find it also tattooed. Yet you would not
at once conclude he was a sailor; rather, your conclusion might go on
other lines, but always assigning to him a rough adventurous outdoor
life.

When the doctor got into the cab and shut the door himself, he took
too much for granted. He assumed the driver, without whom, if your
horse has no ambition at all beyond tranquillity and an empty nosebag,
your condition is that of one camping out; or as one in a ship moore