They entered one of the small seaside hotels of the cheaper sort which abound in French watering-places, where the walls of the tiny rooms seem to be made of brown paper, and everyone is living in their neighbour’s pocket.  But a pleasant young woman came forward to take Bridget’s bag.

‘Mademoiselle Cook—­Cookson?’ she said interrogatively.  ’I have a letter for Mademoiselle.  Du medecin,’ she added, addressing the major.

‘Ah?’ That gentleman put down Bridget’s bag in the little hall, and stood attentive.  Bridget opened the letter—­a very few words—­and read it with an exclamation.

’DEAR MISS COOKSON,—­I am awfully sorry not to meet you to-night, and at the hospital to-morrow.  But I am sent for to Bailleul.  My only brother has been terribly wounded—­they think fatally—­in a bombing attack last night.  I am going up at once—­there is no help for it.  One of my colleagues, Dr. Vincent, will take you to the hospital and will tell me your opinion.  In haste.—­Yours sincerely,

   ‘ERNEST HOWSON.’

‘H’m, a great pity!’ said the major, as she handed the note to him.  ’Howson has taken a tremendous interest in the case.  But Vincent is next best.  Not the same thing perhaps—­but still—­Of course the whole medical staff here has been interested in it.  It has some extraordinary features.  You I think have had a brother-in-law “missing” for some time?’

He had piloted her into the bare salle a manger, where two young officers, with a party of newly-arrived V.A.D.’s were having dinner, and where through an open window came in the dull sound of waves breaking on a sandy shore.

‘My brother-in-law has been missing since the battle of Loos,’ said Bridget—­’more than a year.  We none of us believe that he can be alive.  But of course when Dr. Howson wrote to me, I came at once.’

‘Has he a wife?’

’Yes, but she is very delicate.  That is why Dr. Howson wrote to me.  If there were any chance—­of course we must send for her.  But I shall know—­I shall know at once.’

‘I suppose you will—­yes, I suppose you will,’ mused the major.  ’Though of course a man is terribly aged by such an experience.  He’s English—­that we’re certain of.  He often seems to understand—­half understand—­a written phrase or word in English.  And he is certainly a man of refinement.  All his personal ways—­all that is instinctive and automatic—­the subliminal consciousness, so to speak—­seems to be that of a gentleman.  But it is impossible to get any response out of him, for anything connected with the war.  And yet we doubt whether there is any actual brain lesion.  So far it seems to be severe functional disturbance—­which is neurasthenia—­aggravated by his wounds and general state.  But the condition is getting worse steadily.  It is very sad, and very touching.  However, you will get it all out of Vincent.  You must have some dinner first.  I wish you a good-night.’