Part 37 (2/2)

”There's something wrong down at the bottom of your stairs! Come with me and see, old chap. There's a girl lying there--a pretty girl dressed in grey--and I believe she's dead.”

”Dead!” I gasped, petrified, for the description he had given was that of Muriel.

”Yes,” he cried, excitedly. ”I believe she's been murdered!”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

SILENCE.

”Murdered!” I gasped, springing to my feet. ”Impossible!”

”I've just discovered her lying on the stairs, and rushed up to you. I didn't stop to make an examination.”

Without further word we dashed down the three flights of stone steps which led to the great entrance-hall of the mansions, but I noticed to my dismay that although the electric lamps on all the landings were alight those on the ground floor had been extinguished, and there, in the semi-darkness lay Muriel, huddled up in a heap on a small landing approached from the entrance-hall by half a dozen steps. The hall of Charing Cross Mansions is a kind of long arcade, having an entrance at one end in Charing Cross Road, and at the other in St Martin's Lane; while to it descend the flights of steps leading to the various wings of the colossal building. At the further end from the stairs by which my chambers could be reached was the porter's box, but placed in such a position that it was impossible for him to see any person upon the stairs.

I sprang down to the side of my helpless love, and tried to lift her, but her weight was so great that I failed. Next instant, however, a cry of horror escaped me, for on my hand I felt something warm and sticky.

It was blood. We shouted for the hall-porter, but he was not in his box, and there was no response. He was, as was his habit each evening, across the way gossiping with the fireman who lounged outside the stage-door of the Alhambra.

”Blood!” I cried, when the terrible truth became plain, and I saw that it had issued from a wound beneath her arm, and that her injury had not been caused by a fall.

”Yes,” exclaimed Bryant, ”she's evidently been stabbed. Do you know her?”

”Know her!” I cried. ”She's my intended wife!”

”Your betrothed!” he gasped. ”My dear fellow, this is terrible. What a frightful shock for you!” And he dropped upon his knees, and tenderly raised her head. Both of us felt her heart, but could discern no movement. In the mean time, however, Simes, more practical than either of us, had sped away to call a doctor who had a dispensary for the poor at the top of St Martin's Lane.

Both of us agreed that her heart had ceased its beating, yet, a moment later, we rejoiced to see, as she lay with her head resting upon Bryant's arm, a slight rising and falling of the breast.

Respiration had returned.

I bent, fondly kissing her chilly lips, and striving vainly to staunch the ugly wound, until suddenly it struck me that the best course to pursue would be to at once remove her to my room; therefore we carefully raised her, and with difficulty succeeded in carrying her upstairs, and laying her upon my bed.

My feeling in these moments I cannot a.n.a.lyse. For months, weary months, during which all desire for life had pa.s.sed from me, I had sought her to gain her love, and now, just as I had done so, she was to be s.n.a.t.c.hed from me by the foul, dastardly deed of some unknown a.s.sa.s.sin. The fact that while the electric lights were shedding their glow in every part of the building they were extinguished upon that small landing was in itself suspicious. Bryant referred to it, and I expressed a belief that the gla.s.s of the two little Swan lamps had been purposely broken by the a.s.sa.s.sin.

At last after a long time the doctor came, a grey-haired old gentleman who bent across the bed, first looking into her face and then pus.h.i.+ng back her hair, placed his hand upon her brow, and then upon her breast.

Without replying to our eager questions, he calmly took out his pocket knife, and turning her upon her side, cut the cord of her corsets, and slit her bodice so that the tightness at the throat was relieved.

Then, calling for a lamp and some water, he made a long and very careful examination of the wound.

”Ah!” he exclaimed, apparently satisfied at last. ”The attempt was a desperate one. The knife was aimed for her heart.”

”But will she die, doctor?” I cried. ”Is the wound likely to be fatal?”

”I really can't tell,” he answered gravely. ”It is a very serious injury--very. No ordinary knife could inflict such a wound. From the appearance of it I should be inclined to think that a long surgeon's knife was used.”

”But is there no hope?” I demanded. ”Tell me the truth.”

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