After an interval of nearly half an hour, Mr. Vimpany made his
appearance. Pausing in the doorway, he consulted his watch, and entered
on a calculation which presented him favourably from a professional
point of view.
"Allow for time lost in reviving my lord when he fainted, and stringing
him up with a drop of brandy, and washing my hands (look how clean they
are!), I haven't been more than twenty minutes in mending his throat.
Not bad surgery, Miss Henley."
"Is his life safe, Mr. Vimpany?"
"Thanks to his luck--yes."
"His luck?"
"To be sure! In the first place, he owes his life to your finding him
when you did; a little later, and it would have been all over with Lord
Harry. Second piece of luck: catching the doctor at home, just when he
was most wanted. Third piece of luck: our friend didn't know how to cut
his own throat properly. You needn't look black at me, Miss; I'm not
joking. A suicide with a razor in his hand has generally one chance in
his favour--he is ignorant of anatomy. That is my lord's case. He has
only cut through the upper fleshy part of his throat, and has missed
the larger blood vessels. Take my word for it, he will do well enough
now; thanks to you, thanks to me, and thanks to his own ignorance.
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