The chemist's assistant, with impassive features, was serving a couple of casual customers from behind the counter.

Only a few yards away, beyond the closed door, the chemist himself and a hastily summoned doctor fought with Death for the body of the girl who lay upon the floor, faint moans coming every now and then from her blue lips.
Tavernake, whose forced inaction during that terrible struggle had become a burden to him, slipped softly from the room as soon as the doctor had whispered that the acute crisis was over, and passed through the shop out into the street, a solemn, dazed figure among the light-hearted crowd.

Even in those grim moments, the man's individualism spoke up to him.

He was puzzled at his own action, He asked himself a question--not, indeed, with regret, but with something more than curiosity and actual selfprobing--as though, by concentrating his mind upon his recent course of action, he would be able to understand the motives which had influenced him.

Why had he chosen to burden himself with the care of this desperate young woman?
Supposing she lived, what was to become of her?
He had acquired a certain definite responsibility with regard to her future, for whatever the doctor and his assistant might do, it was his own promptitude and presence of mind which had given her the first chance of life.