not see Cyril, but the surging, excited throng all veering towards the
end of the platform told him that some serious accident had occurred.

Blake must have been an eyewitness of the whole thing, he thought, as he
tried to elbow his way through horrified men and hysterical women. If he
could only find him! And then a very stout man in a navvy's garb blocked
up his passage.

'Is the poor old man killed?' Michael asked; but he feared what the
answer would be. Was the gray-headed sinner summoned in this terrible
manner to the bar of his offended Judge?

'Lord bless you, sir!' returned the man, 'he is as right as possible;
the train did not touch him. It is the other poor fellow that is done
for, I expect. Me and my mate have just got him out.'

A sudden horrible, almost sickening sensation of fear came to Michael.

'Oh, my God! not that, not that!' burst from his lips as he literally
fought his way down the platform. 'Let me pass, sir! I believe I know
him!' he cried hoarsely, and the man in pity to his white face drew
back.

There was a motionless figure lying on the bench at the other end,
surrounded by porters and strangers. Michael darted towards it, but when
he caught sight of the face he uttered a groan. Alas, alas! he knew it
too well.

'Give me place,' he said, almost fiercely; 'that dead man is my friend.'

'He is not dead, Burnett,' observed a gentleman, who was supporting
Cyril's head; 'but he is badly hurt, poor fellow! We must get him away
at once.'

'Thank Heaven it is you, Abercrombie!' returned Michael excitedly; 'he
is safer with you than with any man alive.'

But Dr. Abercrombie shook his head gravely.

'My carriage is outside, and is at your service,' he said; 'and for the
matter of that, so am I. Let me give these men directions how to move
him.'

Then Michael stood aside while the doctor issued his commands.

Cyril had not regained full consciousness, but as Dr. Abercrombie placed
himself beside him and applied remedies from time to time, a low moan
now and then escaped from his lips.

Michael, who had to sit with the coachman, thought that long drive would
never end, and yet Dr. Abercrombie drove good horses. It seemed hours
before they reached Mortimer Street, and the strain on his nerves made
him look so ghastly as he went into the house to prepare Mrs. Blake,
that she uttered a shriek as soon as she saw his face.

'You have come to tell me my boy is dead!' she exclaimed, catching