’Of course the chances of this poor fellow being George Sarratt are infinitesimal—­I must warn you as to that.  How account for the interval between September 1915 and June 1916—­for his dress, his companion—­for their getting through the German lines?

’However, directly I set eyes on this man, which was the week after I arrived here, I began to feel puzzled about him.  He reminded me of someone—­but of whom I couldn’t remember.  Then one afternoon it suddenly flashed upon me—­and for the moment I felt almost sure that I was looking at George Sarratt.  Then, of course, I began to doubt again.  I have tried—­under the advice of the specialist I spoke of—­all kinds of devices for getting into some kind of communication with him.  Sometimes the veil between him and those about him seems to thin a little, and one makes attempts—­hypnotism, suggestion, and so forth.  But so far, quite in vain.  He has, however, one peculiarity which I may mention.  His hands are long and rather powerful.  But the little fingers are both crooked—­markedly so.  I wonder if you ever noticed Sarratt’s hands?  However, I won’t write more now.  You will understand, I am sure, that I shouldn’t urge you to come, unless I thought it seriously worth your while.  On the other hand, I cannot bear to excite hopes which may—­which probably will—­come to nothing.  All I can feel certain of is that it is my duty to write, and I expect that you will feel that it is your duty to come.

’I send you the address of a man at the War Office—­high up in the R.A.M.C.—­to whom I have already written.  He will, I am sure, do all he can to help you get out quickly.  Whoever he is, the poor fellow here is very ill.’

* * * * *

The steamer glided up the dock of the French harbour.  The dusk had fallen, but Bridget was conscious of a misty town dimly sprinkled with lights, and crowned with a domed church; of chalk downs, white and ghostly, to right and left; and close by, of quays crowded with soldiers, motors, and officials.  Carrying her small suit-case, she emerged upon the quay, and almost immediately was accosted by the official of the Red Cross who had been told off to look after her.

’Let me carry your suit-case.  There is a motor here, which will take you to X——.  There will be two nurses going with you.’

Up the long hill leading southwards out of the town, sped the motor, stopping once to show its pass to the sentries—­khaki and grey, on either side of the road, and so on into the open country, where an autumn mist lay over the uplands, beneath a faintly starlit sky.  Soon it was quite dark.  Bridget listened vaguely to the half-whispered talk of the nurses opposite, who were young probationers going back to work after a holiday, full of spirits and merry gossip about ‘Matron’ and ‘Sister,’ and their favourite surgeons.  Bridget was quite silent.  Everything was strange and dreamlike.  Yet she was sharply conscious that she was nearing—­perhaps—­some great experience, some act—­some decision—­which she would have to make for herself, with no one to advise her.  Well, she had never been a great hand at asking advice.  People must decide things for themselves.