‘What is it, Mr Hartley?’ he asked.

‘Behold!’ cried out Mr Hartley, with all the dramatic intonation he considered suitable to the situation, ‘Miss Adeane in a collapse!’

‘Oh, woe!’ said Foulkes, catching his colleague’s tone. ‘What are we to do?’

Mr Hartley was now attempting to revive Emmeline, by patting her cheek and urging her to wake up, but she lay still and pale before him, showing no sign of movement. Only the turban she was wearing that day had moved when her head hit the floor and was now lodged unceremoniously over one eye, like the hat of a jester. And all among Mr Hartley’s dismay there lurked a fearful worry at this occurrence, taking, as it did, so much dignity from Emmeline’s person.

‘You must run to the doctor, Foulkes,’ said Mr Hartley. ‘You must urge him to come immediately.’

‘Run?’ said Mr Foulkes. ‘You know I cannot run …’

‘Hobble, then. Hobble as fast as you can. It is but two streets away.’

‘No,’ said Mr Foulkes. ‘I have a better idea. Lay her on a stretcher and we will carry her there, between the two of us. That way, there is no toing and froing.’

‘Admirable,’ said Hartley. ‘Except that we have no stretcher.’

‘What are paintings but strong canvases stretched between four points, Mr Hartley? Put her on the unframed painting of the White Woman and we will convey her to the doctor on that. The unframed object will be lighter for us to carry.’

Mr Hartley stared at his colleague. In their long association, Mr Foulkes had often shown an odd originality of mind which Hartley knew he himself did not possess. His choice of mounting boards for watercolours had sometimes been too modern and daring for Hartley’s taste, but had helped to give the firm its reputation for up-to-the-minute craftsmanship. Thus, when Foulkes made seemingly audacious decisions, Hartley was disposed to go along with them.

‘We might damage the painting …’ he ventured.

‘No,’ said Mr Foulkes. ‘I will fetch a rug and lay it over the canvas. Then, all should go well. If she was fat, why then there might be a bending sort of calamity with the canvas, but she is so light, she will not even dent it.’

So it was done as Mr Foulkes suggested. The portrait of Jane was laid on the floor and covered with a tartan blanket and the two men gently lifted Emmeline onto it. Her turban fell off altogether and Hartley gently laid it on her chest – perhaps in the very place where she had felt the hammer blows. Then they set off, easing their strange conveyance gently through the narrow shop door and into the street, where a ragged urchin crossing sweeper stared at them with huge eyes and asked, ‘is she dead, then, mister?’

‘Get away, lad,’ barked Mr Foulkes, ‘she’s a fine lady and we will not let her die.’

Emmeline woke up on the doctor’s couch. She saw a face coming out of the darkness and positioning itself very close to hers. She wanted to scream with fright, the more so when a probing finger pushed up one of her eyelids so that the face could peer under it into the depths of her eye. But she found that she had no voice.