Sir Norman was completely at a lose, and half beside himself,
with a thousand conflicting feelings of sorrow, astonishment, and
mystification. The rapid and exciting events of the night had
turned his head into a mental chaos, as they very well might, but
he still had commonsense enough left to know that something must
be done about this immediately. He knew the best place to take
Ormiston was to the nearest apothecary's shop, which
establishments were generally open, and filled, the whole
livelong night, by the sick and their friends. As he was
meditating whether or not to call the surly watchman to help him
carry the body, a pest-cart came, providentially, along, and the
driver-seeing a young man bending over a prostrate form-guessed
at once what was the matter, and came to a halt.
"Another one!" he said, coming leisurely up, and glancing at the
lifeless form with a very professional eye. "Well, I think there
is room for another one in the cart; so bear a hand, friend, and
let us have him out of this."
"You are mistaken!" said Sir Norman sharply, "he has not died of
the plague. I am not even certain whether he is dead at all.
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