‘No, I don’t think I am.’

’H’m—­that’s rather a pity.  A great deal may turn on them, in this case.’

Then the face before him woke up a little.

’But I am quite sure I should know my brother-in-law again, under any circumstances,’ said Bridget, with emphasis.

’Ah, don’t be so sure!  Privation and illness change people terribly.  And this poor fellow has suffered!’—­he shrugged his shoulders expressively.  ’Well, you will see him to-morrow.  There is of course no external evidence to help us whatever.  The unlucky accident that the Englishman’s companion—­who was clearly a Belgian peasant, disguised—­of that there is no doubt—­was shot through the lungs at the very moment that the two men reached the British line, has wiped out all possible means of identification—­unless, of course, the man himself can be recognised by someone who knew him.  We have had at least a dozen parties—­relations of “missing” men—­much more recent cases—­over here already—­to no purpose.  There is really no clue, unless’—­the speaker rose with a tired smile—­’unless you can supply one, when you see him.  But I am sorry about the fingers.  That has always seemed to me a possible clue.  To-morrow then, at eleven?’

Bridget interrupted.

’It is surely most unlikely that my brother-in-law could have survived all this time?  If he had been a prisoner, we should have heard of him, long ago.  Where could he have been?’

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

’There have been a few cases, you know—­of escaped prisoners—­evading capture for a long time—­and finally crossing the line.  But of course it is very unlikely—­most unlikely.  Well, to-morrow?’ He bowed and departed.

Bridget made her way to her small carpetless room, and sat for long with a shawl round her at the open window.  She could imagine the farm in this moonlight.  It was Saturday.  Very likely both Cicely and Sir William were at the cottage.  She seemed to see Nelly, with the white shawl over her dark head, saying good-night to them at the farm-gate.  That meant that it was all going forward.  Some day,—­and soon,—­Nelly would discover that Farrell was necessary to her—­that she couldn’t do without him—­just as she had never been able in practical ways to do without her sister.  No, there was nothing in the way of Nelly’s great future, and the free development of her—­Bridget’s—­own life, but this sudden and most unwelcome stroke of fate.  If she had to send for Nelly—­supposing it really were Sarratt—­and then if he died—­Nelly might never get over it.

It might simply kill her—­why not?  All the world knew that she was a weakling.  And if it didn’t kill her, it would make it infinitely less likely that she would marry Farrell—­in any reasonable time.  Nelly was not like other people.  She was all feelings.  Actually to see George die—­and in the state that these doctors described—­would rack and torture