At Love's Cost

Mr. Wordley sprang to his feet.

"It is she!" he exclaimed. "Was she much hurt, is--is she alive--where

is she? I must go to her at once."

"London Hospital," replied the inspector, succinctly, as he turned to a

subordinate. "Call a cab!"

It was not a particularly slow hansom, and it did not take very long to

get from the police station to the hospital; but to Mr. Wordley the

horse seemed to crawl and the minutes to grow into days. He leapt out

of the hansom, and actually ran into the hall.

"You've a patient--Ida Heron"--he panted to the hall porter.

The man turned to his book.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Discharged yesterday."

Mr. Wordley staggered against the glass partition of the porter's box

and groaned.

"Can you tell me--?" he began. "Has she left any address? I--I am her

solicitor. Excuse my being hurried: I want her particularly."

The porter looked at him sympathetically--everybody is sympathetic at a

hospital, from the head physician and that puissant lady, the matron,

down to the boy who cleans the brass plate.

"Won't, you sit down, sir," he said, "The young lady was discharged

yesterday, and I can't tell you where she's gone, in fact, though I

remember her being brought in--run-over case--I like to step upstairs

and see the sister of the ward she was in, the Alexandra?"

While he was speaking, and Mr. Wordley was trying to recover command of

himself, a slim black-clad figure came down the hall, and pausing

before the large tin box provided for contributions, dropped something

into it. Mr. Wordley watched her absently; she raised her head, and he

sprang forward with "Miss Ida!" on his lips.

Ida uttered a cry and staggered a little; for she was not yet as strong

as the girl who used to ride through Herondale, and Mr. Wordley caught

her by both hands and supported her.

"Thank God! thank God!" was all he could exclaim for a minute. "My dear

child! my dear Miss Ida! Sit down!"

He drew her to one of the long benches and sat down beside her. To his

credit, be it stated, that the tears were in his eyes, and for a moment

or two he was incapable of speech; indeed, it was Ida who, woman-like,

first recovered her self-possession.

"Mr. Wordley! Is it really you? How did you know? how did you find me?

I am so glad; oh, so glad!" She choked back the tears that sprang to

her eyes and forced a laugh; for again, woman-like, she saw that he was

more upset than even she was. He found his voice after awhile, but it

was a very husky one.