The Lion's Mouse

								

might save her. I'd have a trained nurse in. I'm Mrs. Roger Sands. You
may know my husband's name."
The name of Roger Sands was impressive. So was Beverley, and so was the
car. The ambulance wasn't at hand, and time pressed. It seemed as if the
offer might be accepted. The doctor was the physician engaged to attend
the employees of Moreton and Payntor, and had authority in the
neighbourhood. To test Mrs. Roger Sands' character he abruptly ordered
her into the surgical department--"ground floor, close by the side
street entrance"--to "fetch out a stretcher and be quick." Beverley
responded without hesitation, and in two minutes a startled boy appeared
with a canvas thing like a cot.
The doctor and one of the policemen got the childish body on to this
while Beverley darted to her waiting chauffeur. He--Robbins, an elderly
Englishman--was furious, but short of giving notice then and there,
could do nothing save obey. The folding chairs were pulled out: on one
was piled the car's best ornament, a large chinchilla rug, and some blue
silk cushions. These gave support for the foot of the stretcher, its
head resting on the seat; and the other folding chair was taken by the
doctor who, sitting there, could hold his patient safely in place. Mrs.
Roger Sands scrambled up beside her chauffeur, and did not even notice
that the man's face was a thundercloud.
Robbins could have cried. His last situation in England had been with a
duke. He would still have occupied it, had he not long passed the
"smart" age. Roger Sands had thought him an excellent guardian for
Beverley. Robbins didn't approve of America, but he had approved of his
mistress. There had seemed to him something queenly about her which
"reminded him of home," but to-day he was ashamed of her: to drive
through the streets of New York sitting on the front seat beside him, as
if she were a lady's maid! Worse than all, her dress, her gloves, were
stained with blood. As for the inside of the new car, it would be
ruined. The man felt responsible, and believed that his master would
consider him so. Sitting beside Mrs. Sands, with the look of an inferior
Roman statue on his square face, the chauffeur resolved to see Mr. Sands
before the tale of this morning's work could be told by Sands' American
chauffeur, who drove him to and from the office. The Englishman decided
to bribe the American to "lend his job" that afternoon. They could
arrange an excuse. Harter had a cold. But, as it happened, Roger Sands
read of the affair in a second edition of an evening paper while he
waited for his car.
To see Beverley's name in big letters gave him a shock. He became
conscious that somewhere within him had always been a horror of finding
his wife's name in a newspaper, heading "scarelines." His first feeling
as he read on was of relief. Why, this was nothing!
Some reporter had worked up the incident into a romance, and his editor,
appreciating Roger Sands' importance, had given it nearly a whole